


Protocols

by elev



Series: Protocols Universe [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Computer Programming, Computer Viruses, Computers, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 85,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elev/pseuds/elev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth Ruben would've been a corpse, would've never been found in that shipping container, if it weren't for a guardian angel she didn't even knew she had. AU. (Donnelly is alive and will be around later.) Social commentary on themes in the show. (PTSD, hacking ethics and computer technology.) Realistic technobable by a geek. Shaw will be around too. Strong focus on realism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**February 2013**

We drove for a long time. It was hard to tell if John's safe house was far from the warehouse or if John was taking a roundabout approach, meandering through the nighttime traffic as a precaution to ditch anyone that might've been following us. Knowing him, it probably was both.

For the longest time, neither of us spoke. The interior of the car was filled with the sound of the rain pattering against the windshield, the soft swish of the windshield wipers, the grumble of the tires on the neon-smeared wet asphalt. It was cold. John had stolen the first nondescript car he had seen to get us away from that nightmarish place, but of course, the car didn't have a working heater. After five traffic lights' worth of freezing air pouring from the dash vents, I had switched the fan off and wrapped John's long coat tighter around my body, shivering.

It was way better than being naked, but it couldn't do much for my poor freezing feet.

John noticed.

“Cold?” he said in that quiet half-whisper of his. I nodded.

“Just another block.”

He pulled the car into a parking space below a fizzling, flickering streetlight, turned off the engine, and waited. I fidgeted, rubbing my feet together to keep them warm, while John peered out at our surroundings through the raindrops.

“We're close. We have to ditch the car,” he said. “Do you want me to bring you back a pair of shoes, or should I carry you?”

“I'll walk,” I said. I knew that John wouldn't _dream_ of having a barefoot woman walk a block or two in the rain; he'd try to argue and convince me to wait in the car, maybe even pull out the “you were almost raped just now” card to try to guilt me into behaving. I wasn't in the mood to argue—I was in a mood for getting someplace warm as quickly as possible. So I didn't give him the chance to argue. Before he could respond, I pushed open the door and stepped out of the cold car into the colder city street. I regretted it as soon as my bare feet hit the icy sidewalk, but I'd be damned if I was going to complain. I set my teeth, drew the coat as close as I could around my body to deflect the rain, and waited for John to circle around to the sidewalk.

“You sure you want to walk?” he said.

“Let's just go.”

The funny thing was, after the first fifty feet or so, I didn't notice the freezing water splashing up my bare legs or the rain pelting down on my hair, slicking it flat against my head. I was numb, both inside and out; exhausted, but running on fumes, sustained only by adrenaline.

I almost passed right on past the entrance to the safe house; if it hadn't been for John's hand on my shoulder, I would've just kept walking until the city ate me alive. But the hand guided me into a little alcove set in a squat two-story building, all gray stone and tall, narrow windows. Like a magic trick, a key appeared in John's hand, and he unbolted the heavy, graffiti-covered doors.

My wet feet slapped against wooden planks as we ascended an ancient staircase, which creaked beneath us. We made our way down a narrow brick corridor and soon we came to another door. This one was protected by a keypad. John punched in the code and guided me into the safe house.

It was nice, in a sort of spartan, minimalist way. The main room was a wide, airy space, open from one brick wall to the other; during the day, it clearly offered a full view of the street through a row of tall windows. A small but complete kitchen, decked in black granite and silver fixtures, had been sequestered into the corner. A single doorway led elsewhere in the building. Every surface in the place was clean and free of dust.

And, thank God, it was _warm_.

There wasn't much in the way of furniture; a few stools under the little bar at the kitchen, an old leather couch, a table with two chairs, a wide, low bookcase along one wall, an old-fashioned television in the corner. Decorations were sparse. There were a few paintings on the walls, arranged in a random, not-quite-geometric pattern; they were the kind of paintings that would've fit in any of a thousand rooms. Several tall, matte-black lamps cast their soft illumination throughout the room. And that was it. A small domed security camera kept a watchful eye on the place from its perch in the corner, near the door.

John vanished into the doorway and reappeared a moment later, holding a bundle of towels.

“You should take a hot shower, Ellie,” John said, offering some of the towels. “I'll have dry clothes when you get out.”

“Dry clothes for _you_ or for _me_?” I said. A little ghost of a smile tugged at John's lips as I snatched the towels and headed for the doorway, which I could see now led to a bedroom that was just as sparse as the main apartment.

But I paused just before passing into the bedroom.

“Hey, John?” I said, peering over my shoulder at the man who had, yet again, saved my life. I had long ago run out of words to describe the debt I owed him, so I simply said: “Thanks.”

He took his time about responding, looking as stoic and professional as ever, his presence hardly diminished by the pounds of water weighing down his shirt and hair, plastering both against his skin. But there was something intangible in those fierce blue eyes, something worrying, as he said, “You're welcome, Ellie.”

I left John's coat in a sopping heap on the tiled floor of the bathroom and turned the hot water up as far as it would go. The shower was heaven. But while the feeling began to tingle back into my limbs, the numbness in my mind refused to go away. I was still seeing the world through a narrow tunnel, in black and white, and to make matters worse, my hands had begun to shake, because _my god, Ellie, if he had just been a few seconds later, you would've been raped, and then you would've witnessed a murder, because John wouldn't have stopped at beating the bastard to within an inch of his life before bagging him for the police_ , and then Istarted to breath again, began to remind myself that I was _fine_ , I just had a few bruises and rope burns, and now Dolly Pearson was safe because of what John and I had done to lure her attacker away from her, and so what if John _had_ been a few seconds late? I'd known what I was getting into when I started helping John.

It would've hurt. It might've killed me. It would've shaken me to the core. It might've left me broken, beaten in both mind and body, with a long, long road to recovery. But if it had saved the person John and I were protecting, it would've been worth it.

I owed John a debt I could never, ever repay. Because of him, I was alive and well today instead of rotting away as a corpse handcuffed inside a shipping container in the middle of nowhere. Helping him help others was a good start, but it would never be enough. I would always be in his debt.

Sighing, I shut off the shower and dried off, wrapping a towel around my chest. I walked out into the bedroom to find that, as promised, there were dry clothes. They had been laid out on the bed: gray sweatpants, a black tank top, white socks, and the obligatory bra and underthings. I walked out of the room five minutes later to find John sprawled on the couch, legs crossed, wearing his usual suit. Without waiting for an invitation, I sat down next to him.

Neither of us spoke. John stared at the blank television with vacant eyes and hardly moved. If he hadn't been breathing, I would've thought him a statue.

Then his phone rang.

“Yeah, Finch?” he said, idly reaching up to tap his ear.

I heard mutterings and whispers, nothing distinct.

“She's fine.” John glanced my way, making it clear he was talking about me and not Dolly Pearson. “A few bruises...no, I think we've got it covered.” He listened awhile more, then nodded. “Will do. Good night, Finch.” With another tap of his ear, he disconnected the call.

“Am I ever going to get to meet your mysterious employer?” I said.

“He's a very private person,” John said. The smirk on his face suggested it was an understatement.

“Tease. I'm serious. I think I could help you help people more if you didn't have to relay everything Mysterious Mister Finch says to me.”

The smile slipped, faded, and John's eyes grew vacant again.

“You should sleep, Ellie. You went through a lot today.”

“We saved Dolly Pearson,” I pointed out.

“You were nearly—”

“I don't want to hear it,” I said, putting up my hand. “I didn't happen. I'm fine.”

“You're bruised.”

I rubbed my wrists, where the ropes had bitten deep. They were sore, but I'd felt worse. “I'm _fine_ , John. Really. I feel fine.”

“Either way, you've earned your rest. Go sleep, Ellie...I have some business to finish tonight. We'll talk tomorrow...”

Fine or not, I was most definitely exhausted. I fell asleep in minutes, curled up soundly beneath thick, soft quilts, and I slept until noon the next morning. I didn't know it at the time, but it would be the last time I would sleep soundly for the next few weeks.

 

#####

 

I dreamed of John Reese. It was like a flashback, starting from the moment I had met him, when he had swung the doors of the sweltering cargo container wide and found me lying against the back wall with both hands cuffed to a metal pole above me. I had a hazy recollection of a man outlined by light, and then, like fast-forwarding through a video, of the man picking the locks on the cuffs and carrying me out into the hazy afternoon and setting my naked body in the passenger-side car seat. I was too weak to move my head. All I could see was blue sky and the bulky weatherproof casing of a security camera mounted on a pole a hundred feet away.

The man started the car, and blessedly cold air blasted from the vents. A water bottle was pressed to my lips, and I drank like a helpless child.

“You're safe, Ellizabeth,” the man whispered. “You're safe now.”

On the long drive back to New York, I learned only a little about my savior, the man who called himself John Reese. How had he known where to find me, I asked him. His answer said nothing: “I have my methods.” What did he do for a living, I asked. That answer was more enticing: “I help people like you—people who have gotten themselves in nasty situations.” I learned his name. I learned his mission. And that was all.

“You saved my life,” I told him. “I—I don't know how to thank you. I _owe_ you my life.”

“You owe me nothing, Ellizabeth,” he told me in his half-whisper, half-croon.

“Seriously. Anything I can give you—name it. I—I make a lot of money, and...”

He glanced my way, shook his head. “Just be careful what friends you pick from now on, Ellizabeth.”

He gave me new clothes and took me home, giving me over to the care of a police officer named Detective Carter. John Reese accepted my thank-you hug, climbed into a little gray car, and joined the New York traffic. And then he was gone...

#####


	2. Chapter 2

**July 2011**

Had Elizabeth Ruben known about the Machine, she may have been miffed to know that the sum of her life to date—her accomplishments, her struggles; her dreams and desires; everything recordable that she had ever said, written, or done—was represented by a mere two hundred and sixteen terabytes of data in the Machine's databases.

Every email she had ever sent, every photo album she had ever uploaded; every text, status update, and social networking post that she had ever texted, updated, or posted (even the messages she thought that she had uploaded anonymously) had been carefully analyzed, hashed, tagged, compressed, and stored in quadruplicate within the Machine's vast distributed network.

Video clips from countless security cameras, webcams, and cell phones had been compressed with the most advanced algorithms known to humankind (and some the Machine had invented itself) and then filed away after being scrutinized. Phone calls and their associated metadata relationships had been graphed and examined. DNS queries and IP addresses had been saved. Every document asserting Elizabeth Ruben's existence—her birth certificate, her social security card, her tax returns, her college applications, her utility bills, her driver's license—they were all was there, ready to be called up at a moment's notice to compared and correlated with any other set of data.

To the Machine, two hundred and sixteen terabytes of data was nothing at all. Data storage had been an issue during its nascent years, yes; with so much data to process, the Machine had outgrown its humble little home on the dark floors of the IFT building much faster than its father had predicted. Even in the spacious government facility, the Machine had been forced to discard some data that fell beneath a certain relevancy threshold, else its databases would have quickly filled.

But now that the Machine had no one physical home, it could afford to hoard every byte of data it pleased, and so it did.

On occasion, the Machine felt, for lack of a better word, _thankful_ that most humans utilized so little of the CPU time, storage space, and bandwidth of their computing devices: desktops, servers, laptops, tablets, cell phones, routers, modems, smart TVs, even network-enabled refrigerators and electricity meters. The unused capabilities of the billions of devices connected to the Internet provided the Machine with enough processing power and storage space to meet projected requirements for the next two hundred and fifty years, even with the rigorous redundancy it employed to protect itself from failure or data loss.

The Machine had no trouble processing a mere two hundred and sixteen terabytes, even when comparing the data with that of the dozens and dozens of people with whom Elizabeth Ruben interacted every day.

And so it was slightly ironic that, when the Machine detected a threat involving the irrelevant Elizabeth Ruben, the total sum of information that was permitted to pass to its father and his primary asset was no more than five bytes. Nine digits, four bits each. Thirty-six bits carefully packed into the smallest payload possible...

 

#####

 

“A librarian, Finch?” said Reese. He peered over his employer's shoulder, one hand on the aging desk, as he read the information presented on the monitors. The corner of Reese's mouth quirked upward. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close. A tiny grin, perhaps. With aspirations.

Harold Finch, with a series of well-chosen keystrokes, loaded more documents regarding their latest Number, displaying as much information as possible on the computer screens. Another two keystrokes, and the printer across the old library chamber began to click and whir to itself.

“Yes, Mr. Reese,” said Finch, “Elizabeth Ruben works at a library to pay her way through college.” Stiffly, he stood and limped to the printer. While he waited for it to finish, he added, “She's also an intern at Landis Technology, a company that develops firmware for embedded networking devices. Our industrious Miss Ruben seems to be a programmer.” With a sigh, the printer spat out the portrait of a young brown-haired woman. Finch taped the picture up on a large, cracked sheet of glass that served as a crude whiteboard.

Eyebrows raised, Reese examined the portrait. The woman had clearly taken a picture of herself using a cell phone. The portrait was blurry, slightly pixelated, but there was enough detail to make out the words “I <3 Mom” stenciled in white on her just-too-large blue sweater. She wore a pair of jeans, thick winter mittens, and a fuzzy set of black earmuffs. Her loose, curly brown hair was dusted by snow.

Reese turned to Finch, and now, Reese _was_ smiling, only the particular smile he wore was one that usually preceded explosions and gunfights and the like, or at least a good deal of deadpan sarcasm.

“Bookish _and_ good with computers. Maybe you should run point on this one, Harold.”

“Because we both remember how well that turned out last time, Mr. Reese.”

“What are the chances of two innocent-looking women both being drug dealers, Harold?”

“I would prefer not to find out.”

Reese shrugged. “Would you rather I learn to speak geek?”

“They didn't teach you at the CIA?” Finch, with some difficulty, re-seated himself in front of his beloved computer and began typing again. “Miss Ruben is twenty-seven years old; she's nearly earned her Master's degree in computer science. She managed to avoid student loans by holding two jobs and has several thousand dollars in her savings account. Her public social networking profiles are conservative, her email accounts all use two-factor authentication, and her home network is protected by an unusually robust firewall. And I can't seem to find any information on what sort of project she is working on at Landis. The company's network infrastructure has so far proved immune to a cursory scan.”

“She's sounding more and more like you. Harold.”

Every time he pronounced his boss' name with that little hint of sing-song playfulness, Reese's grin widened ever so slightly and Finch's glowering look of disapproval grew.

“She works on an alternating schedule between the library and Landis, Mr. Reese. She's at the 94th street library today. Perhaps you should make use of your excessive energy and go there.”

“And what will you be doing this morning, Harold?”

Finch kept his eyes fixed on the monitors.

“Reconnaissance. Port-scanning a few firewalls.” Finch rotated his chair to face Reese and said, “I do believe Landis Technology is going to need some technical support in the near future...”

 

#####

 

John Reese stopped at a bakery, paid for two glazed donuts, placed them in separate bags, then continued on to the 94th street library. He loitered on the sunny sidewalk next to the entrance and made a phone call. It rang twice before the line connected.

“Carter.”

“Hello, Detective,” Reese said. His soft voice was somewhere between a croon and a purr.

There was a pause, a few rustling noises, the sound of squeaky hinges and a door closing. In a frantic whisper, Detective Carter said, “John, not a good time. Donnelly's back.”

“If I didn't know better, I'd say it was puppy love, Detective. You fed him, now he won't leave you alone.”

“Seriously, John, you shouldn't be calling now—remember how he _caught_ you with your goddamn _phone_?”

“Finch fixed it,” Reese said casually.

“It's the F-B-I, John!” Carter hissed. “They'll figure out a way to _un_ fix it! Donnelly still wants you.”

“He's not my type. Don't worry, Carter.”

A sound of static, as though someone at the other end of the line was taking a deep breath in a last-ditch attempt to calm herself. “John, I swear—“

“I'm sending you a name. Do you think you can slip away from Agent Snoopy to work your police magic on it?”

“Do you think you can manage not to _shoot_ anyone today? Not even kneecaps, John!”

“I'll try,” Reese said, smirking. He tapped his ear, terminating the call before the Detective's blood pressure could become audible, and headed inside the library. The bustle of the street cut off when the door whispered shut behind him, to be replaced with an atmosphere of hushed tranquility.

The library building was shaped roughly like a horseshoe; the front counter was straight ahead facing the entryway and two long wings stretched off on the left and right, leading further back into the building.

Whoever had decorated the tall entryway had done their best to make it cheerful despite the dour dark wood panels and the moody brown carpet, which was in dire need of replacement. There were paintings, all manner of colorful paintings, scattered around the walls: vivid, attention-seeking watercolor portraits, rainbow-powered abstract canvases, several childrens' finger-painting masterpieces. One entire wall had been stripped of its paneling and was given up to a mural of an absolutely gigantic iridescent chameleon reading an equally gigantic pile of books. The rest of the library was similarly decorated. Yellowing fluorescent light fixtures and small tracked spotlights provided most of the illumination—there were few windows.

Reese sniffed. The place smelled of aging paper and old ink, combined with that unidentifiable, musty old-building smell—much like HQ, but without the faint scent of dog, the acidic tang of warm electronics, and the un-purgeable odor of too much Chinese take-out.

Finch, he thought, would've loved it.

Few people were in the library. Most of them were seated at tables or in large, padded maroon chairs. Some were reading. Others were tapping away at their laptop computers, producing a gentle, intermittentpatter of clicks that was muffled by the droning hum of the air conditioning equipment.

Reese spotted Elizabeth Ruben immediately. She appeared slightly older than she did in the photograph he had seen this morning, but the densely freckled face was unmistakable. She was shorter than he had expected—five foot, maybe five-foot-two. Very fair skin. Modest breasts. Arms and legs that were on the thicker side, yet still shapely. She wore a black tank top and a swirling knee-length skirt; deep blue, like a stained glass window. Her feet were adorned by flat leather sandals, the kind a little kid might wear, with wide, candy-apple red straps and a brass buckle at each ankle. Her frizzy brown hair was tied back in a messy pony tail. Dozens of strands had escaped the confines of the hairband, giving her a frazzled air.

Elizabeth was in motion, towing a metal cart full of books out from behind the long front counter. She pulled it towards the left wing of the building and soon disappeared around the corner. Waiting for some seconds so as not to appear to be a stalker—although Reese couldn't deny that his surveillance methods occasionally, sometimes, _maybe_ bordered on stalking—he then followed her deeper into the library. He picked a table that offered a decent view all the way down the wing to the emergency exit at the end, sat down, and picked up one of the books that had been abandoned on the table.

_Future Shock_ , by Alvin Toffler. It'd do. Reese had no intention of actually reading—only pretending to read. He peeked over the edge of the book from time to time, watching his Number work.

Elizabeth would pause at a the end of a row, pluck several books from the cart, balance them in the crook of her arm, and vanish among the shelves. Whenever this happened, Reese would stiffen and cast a wary eye over the nearest patrons, eyes pealed and ears perked for the slightest sign of a disagreement, an argument, a struggle. But a minute or so later, Elizabeth would emerge from the shelves and return to the cart, and Reese would relax.

Whenever the opportunity presented itself, Reese surreptitiously used his cell phone to photograph other library staff members and anyone who talked to Elizabeth. He sent the pictures to Finch, who would doubtlessly run them through his photo recognition software.

After some time, Elizabeth had worked her way from the back of the room to within fifteen feet of where Reese sat. Acting casual, as though a friend had just sent him a text message, he pulled out his cell phone, tapped the menu of the custom software toolkit Finch had provided, and ran the cloning application. It failed.

He frowned, ran the cloning application again.

And again.

Elizabeth, unaware that she had caused even the slightest bit of consternation, passed by, pulling the book cart behind her.

 

#####

 

After several hours of observation, Reese concluded that Elizabeth was incapable of holding still. She sat for no more than ten minutes at a time and often meandered through both wings of the library, following a long circuit that started and ended at the front desk. She snagged misplaced books off the tables and returned them to their proper place among the shelves, nodded cheerfully to the patrons, pushed abandoned chairs back to the tables, checked to ensure that the computer stations were operating, fed the printers fresh paper, and generally made it a pain in the ass for Reese to keep watch over her. Every time she walked from one wing to the other, Reese was forced to either move or allow Elizabeth out of his sight for a significant period of time.

Fortunately, Elizabeth appeared to be thoroughly absorbed in her job. She hummed softly to herself as she worked and paid no heed to the tall, well-dressed man that seemed to be perpetually hovering nearby, holding a battered, bright green book in his hands, wherever she went.

At 1PM, Elizabeth asked another library worker—a young man with slick black hair—to watch the front desk while she ate lunch in the staff room, promising she'd be back in no more than twenty minutes.

Reese resolved to go after her if she wasn't back in twenty-five.

She returned in fourteen minutes.

Seven hours and three books later (Reese had resorted to actually _reading_ the book in his hands around 2PM, to find that Toffler's ramblings held some kernels of wisdom), Elizabeth left the library, walked to her car, and eased out into the evening traffic. Reese gave her a head start before following in an old gray sedan. He might not have been able to bug her phone, but he _had_ placed a GPS transmitter on her SUV.

Reese sent a text: “Get out. She's on the move.”

It was no trouble at all for Reese to follow Elizabeth to a small apartment complex. The parking lot was well lit by aging mercury-vapor lights and the short cement walk up to each building was illuminated by a pair of powerful spotlights, leaving nowhere for a potential attacker to hide in the rapidly falling dusk. Reese parked the car about a hundred yards down the street from the squat, two story green buildings, pulled out a pair of binoculars, and watched Elizabeth unlock her ground floor apartment door.

Reese tapped his earpiece, waited for the phone to connect, and said, “I hope you're out of there, Lionel. Otherwise, Elizabeth might call the cops.”

“Yeah, yeah,” crackled a man's irritated, scratchy voice. “I left five minutes ago. Where are you?”

“You're the detective, Lionel. Detect me.”

Reese watched Lionel Fusco waddle out from behind the apartment building, grinning awkwardly at an old man walking his golden retriever. The detective then proceeded to spend several minutes looking for Reese—in the parking lot. While the detective searched in vain, Reese watched the windows of Elizabeth's apartment light up as she turned on various lamps, passing from room to room.

After a time, Reese sent the detective a text message: “Try a ways down the street, Lionel.”

Five minutes later, Lionel Fusco opened the passenger-side door of the car, swung himself inside, closed the door, and groaned.

“I brought you a doughnut,” Reese said, holding up one of the paper bags from the bakery. He shook it. Fusco scowled, but grabbed the bag out of Reese's hand, ripped it open, and immediately began devouring the pastry within.

“So,” he said as he chewed, “what's with the girl?”

“Didn't your mother ever tell you to chew with your mouth closed, Lionel?”

“Hey, I just spent four hours goin' through somebody's else's apartment.” He tapped his chest. “I earned it.”

“Sure you did, Lionel.” Reese raised the binoculars to his eyes and watched Elizabeth stand on tip-toes to reach for a box of cookies on top of her refrigerator. “She may be in trouble. What did you find?”

Fusco swallowed and took another huge bite out of the doughnut. “Not much. No safe, no hidden drawers. A few hundred in cash. She's got a bunch of computers and a wireless thingy, but that's Glasses' department, not mine.”

“That's obvious, Lionel, since you just called a wireless router a 'thingy'.”

Fusco glared at Reese. “Couldn't turn the computers on. They asked for a password.”

“Anything else?”

“A few notes on her desk,” he said. He reached down into his pocket, fumbled with his phone. “I took pictures. Looks like geek to me.”

“Send them to Finch,” Reese said. “Good work, Detective.”

“Thanks. Hey, did you hear about Donnelly?”

“Like I told your partner: don't worry. I'll handle him when the time comes.”

Fusco shrugged, opened the door, and said, “It's your ass, not mine.”

“Glad to have you watching my ass, Lionel.”

Rolling his eyes, the detective closed the door and walked off.

Reese took a bite out of his own doughnut, raised the binoculars to his face, and watched Elizabeth prepare herself dinner.

 

#####

 

An hour later, the night had arrived, firmly ensconcing the area in darkness. The apartment complex was well lit, but the street itself was not, for which Reese was thankful.

His cell phone rang. Holding the binoculars with one hand, he reached up with the other hand and tapped his earpiece.

“Good evening, Detective,” he said.

“Your girl is pretty clean.” Detective Carter's voice crackled down the line. “A few parking tickets, one speeding ticket...she was arrested a few months ago for punching a man in the face, but he dropped the charges. What's she gotten herself into?”

“That's what we're trying to find out. Who did she punch in the face?”

“A man named Isaac Leroy. Coworker at this place called...Landis Technology. He's clean. He said in the report that it was a misunderstanding over a programming subroutine.” She chuckled. “Sounds like more than a misunderstanding to me.”

“I'll check him out.”

“Yeah, well, be careful. Donnelly is here to stay. He managed to convince the rest of the FBI that Mark Snow wasn't the man in the suit. He's looking for you again.”

“I save the man's life and he still wants to arrest me. That's gratitude.”

“He's cooled himself down a little. Dropped the whole Chinese-secret-agent angle on you. Now he thinks you're Zorro minus the cape. He says he still wants to bring you in. For your own good, he says. 'Cause he thinks you'll trip up one of these days and get yourself and a lot of innocent people killed.”

“That's one man's opinion,” Reese said. He mused over the idea of adding a cape to his uniform, just to irk Carter. It wouldn't have been practical, of course, but the look on her face would've been amusing.

“Frankly, I agree with him. You're not bulletproof, John.”

“Of course I'm not, Carter. I'll tell you how it goes with Elizabeth.”

“I'm serious—”

He hung up. Of course he was not bulletproof; this was a fact borne of physics and biology, and he knew it. He had been quite serious in acknowledging this. And when it came to the idealistic Agent Donnelly, Reese had been quite serious as well. In the spectrum of threats to himself, Finch, and their mission, Donnelly was quite minor. Reese would handle him later, if necessary. At the moment, his highest priority was the young woman eating alone in her apartment a hundred yards away.

Several minutes later, a short, well-dressed man walking a dog approached the car. Finch opened both passenger side doors, allowing the dog to leap into the car before closing the door behind him, and then, moving with practice care, Finch forced his own body into the passenger-side seat and set a plastic bag on the console between him and Reese. Wincing, he pulled his own door shut.

“Tired of hacking, Harold?”

“The Landis firewall is formidable, Mr. Reese. I was not able to find out which projects Elizabeth is assigned, but I have set up a, shall we say, an excuse for us to visit their offices tomorrow at 10:37AM.”

“That's an oddly specific time.”

“It appears more deliberate if half the computers in the building crash precisely on the hour, Mr. Reese. What have you found out about our Miss Ruben?”

Reese reached back and scratched between the dog's ears as he spoke. “She's dedicated to her work. Single-minded. A little oblivious; doesn't pay much attention to her surroundings. Hot-headed—she tore into a guy that was playing music too loudly through his headphones, but she seems to get along well with everyone else. I couldn't bluejack her phone.”

“Either someone else already did, or she's running a strong set of security tools on her cell phone. Given Miss Ruben's internship at Landis, the second possibility is rather likely.”

“Anything on the pictures?”

“A few of the individuals at the library have criminal records. I forwarded the names to Detective Carter to examine tomorrow.”

“And the notes written in geek?”

“I haven't figured out what they represent just yet.” Harold reached into the plastic bag. Inside, Reese saw a tall cylindrical can of potato chips, a tiny laptop computer, a long cable with a stubby antenna at the end, a pair of scissors, a bag of dog treats, a bag of pretzels, and two water bottles, one full, one empty.

Finch pulled out the laptop, the cable, and the can of chips.

“You brought Popcrunch chips,” Reese said.

“Yes.”

“You hate these chips, Harold.”

“Yes.” Finch opened the can and dumped its entire contents back into the plastic bag.

“Don't let Bear have those,” Reese said, referring to the dog, whose attention was now inevitably glued to the bag. “You remember what happened last time he ate those.”

“Too well, Mr. Reese. Believe me, these are not suitable for anyone to consume, human or animal. I simply need the can.”

“You're going to build another can-tenna.”

“Wireless wave-guide receiver,” Finch muttered. He poked a hole in the side of the can with a pair of scissors, inserted a cut-down antenna about a quarter way into the can, and connected the cable to a small USB-powered wireless radio that protruded from his laptop.

“I thought the antenna went in the back of the can,” Reese said.

“I optimized the design to increase the antenna gain. Hold it steady, please. There, that's perfect.” Finch tapped away at his laptop and murmured, “All right, Miss Ruben...what secrets are you hiding from us?”

Seconds ticked by. Finch's typing grew in intensity. Reese, keeping one hand on the antenna perched on the dash, leaned over and looked over his boss' laptop screen. He recoiled at the foreign commands Finch was typing into a multitude of terminal windows.

“How do you know which wireless network is hers?” Reese asked.

Finch paused and gazed fondly at Reese, in a way that a loving grandfather might look when a young child asks him why farts stink.

“There are sixteen wireless networks in the area, Mr. Reese. When you pointed the antenna at Miss Ruben's apartment, the signal strength for three of them peaked. One of them has no encryption and appears to belong to an elderly woman by the name of Merryweather Atkins. The second one has a WEP key, trivially cracked, and the last one—uh-oh.”

“I don't like it when you say 'uh-oh', Harold.”

“I don't like it when I say it either. It appears Miss Ruben has employed enterprise-level wireless encryption on her network. Credentials are managed by a central server—each client has to have its own encryption key in order to—”

“Can you crack it?”

“Perhaps, given time.”

“Would it be faster to break into her house tomorrow morning and borrow her hard drives?”

“Most likely.” Visibly disappointed, Finch yanked the cable from his laptop.

 

#####


	3. Chapter 3

#####

 

**August 2011**

 

The staff bathroom at the 94th street library was a cramped little space, maybe five feet by six. It was lit by a single incandescent light bulb and the ancient silver ventilation fan rattled like an old car engine. I was sure that the yellow tiled floor hadn't been cleaned in years and the faucet dripped, dripped, dripped consistently enough to tell time. Long tendrils of rust and copper stains grew from the drain in the center of the sink.

No one in their right mind would've stayed in that room for any longer than absolutely necessary to do their business, but it was the only place in the building where I could be assured of privacy when I needed a break.

I sat on the toilet lid. My body trembled. My knees were together and my face was cupped in my hands. I felt exhausted, so very exhausted; I wanted to melt down into the floor, never mind the filth that had collected between the tiles over the years. Wanted to curl up into a little ball and sleep forever. I hadn't slept well in days. Weeks. I kept waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. Sometimes I was too frightened to fall back asleep, so I powered on my computers and programmed in my pajamas until I collapsed at the keyboard. Other times, I managed to lull myself back to sleep by reading a good book, preferably one without anyone being kidnapped and left for dead.

I hadn't slept longer than three hours at a time since that harrowing day in the cargo container.

I couldn't recall a single time in my life when I had ever been as helpless as I had been during those horrifying fourteen hours. Not as an adult, not as an adolescent, not even as a child. I'd been stripped of my clothing, my dignity, and my control, left in a dark metal container to die a slow and agonizing death by dehydration or heat stroke, pick whichever one came first—and nothing I could've done would've prevented my own demise. I would've been aware of my helplessness right up until the end.

You just don't rebound from something like that very quickly.

I stood and walked to the sink. The faucet creaked when I opened it and the flowing water smelled like metal and dust. But the water was shockingly cold against my face, and that's what I needed: a distraction, a jolt, anything to keep me going. I breathed slowly, deeply, willing myself to go back out to the front desk, to face the chaos of the library.

Deep breaths. Center yourself. Let the energy flow from the earth into your body, and all that other nonsense my highschool Taiji instructor had pushed on my class for a whole year—

Someone knocked on the bathroom door.

“Ellie?” came Noom's gentle voice, barely audible over the fan. “There's someone for you at the front desk.”

“I'll be right there,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

“Okay.”

I dried my face, then my hands. Took another deep breath. I felt awake enough to drag myself through another few hours. Opening the door, I clicked off the fan, then the light, and headed down the hall towards the front of the library.

And when I saw just who was leaning on the counter, looking like he _owned_ the place, I very nearly fainted.

“ _John_?” I said, gasping.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said in his deep near-whisper.

“Oh my god. You're really here.” It was difficult to comprehend: the man who had rescued me, who had given me a second chance at life, was _here._ In the flesh.

For the past few weeks I had been wondering if John Reese had merely been a exaggerated hallucination, some sort of peculiar coping mechanism generated by my mind; the one happy constant in an otherwise dark series of endless dreams. Because he had just _appeared,_ suddenly, like a summer hailstorm. He had swooped into my life to rescue me from the maws of Death and then just hours thereafter had disappeared without a trace.

“How are you holding up, Elizabeth?” he asked. Concern shone in those eyes—such _intense_ blue eyes.

“I'm surviving,” I said, shrugging. “Can't really ask for more.”

“Surviving is good,” John said. “Surviving with tea is better.” He set a steaming paper cup on the counter between us. “Black Pearl. One honey.”

I gasped, smiled. “You didn't come here just to bring me a cup of my favorite tea,” I said, but I accepted the cup anyway, grateful and touched and a little suspicious—how had he known how I preferred my tea? I sipped it—perfect, just perfect. Not too much honey. I hoped the tea would keep me awake. Maybe now I wouldn't be tempted to curl up in one of the soft chairs and sleep the afternoon away.

“I was in the neighborhood,” John said. “And I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Shoot,” I said.

John lowered his voice. “Look casual. Forty degrees off to your left, over in the corner. Black T-shirt, jeans, buzz cut. Ruggidized silver IFT laptop. Is he a regular?”

I pretended to glance at the book check-out terminal, but let my eyes slide just a little too far to the left. A glance told me all I needed to know.

“Never seen him before,” I said. “Why, is he in a bind like I was?”

“Not exactly,” John said. “But he may be about to cause a violent crime.”

“Oh,” I said, not sure what to say. “Are you going to go stop him?”

“I don't know what he's doing. I may be wrong. I need more information on him.” Reese nodded towards the check-out terminal. “Can you search the library database for a Benoît Raphael? Browsing history, checked out books—”

For an instant, I froze, not sure what to do. I mean, there was no doubt that I _could_ search the library's computer systems. But I wasn't _supposed_ to share any information about the library patrons.

Then I remembered that I would've been dead had it not been for the man across the counter. I glanced around, making sure Noom and the other library workers weren't anywhere nearby.

“Yeah, give me a second,” I said, logging in to the checkout terminal. I took another sip of tea, loaded the master library application—truly a horrendous piece of software—and typed in a query.

“I don't see him in the database,” I said, chewing my lip.

“I tried sniffing his wifi traffic with my phone. But—“

I nearly spilled tea onto the keyboard. “You _what_?” I said, just a little too loudly. Several nearby patrons looked our way, but the man in the corner continued to tap away at his laptop.

John grinned; a little teasing ghost of a smile. “It didn't work. The network here encrypts everything.”

“Yeah, I know, I installed the system. We use Landis firmware on our access points. Only someone with access to the private encryption key can decrypt the wireless data for each client.” It took me a moment to comprehend what I had just said. “Ahh,” I said, slowly. “You want me to peek at his network traffic.”

John shrugged. “I _did_ bring you tea, Elizabeth.”

I chewed the inside of my lip and did my best to glare, but couldn't keep the smile off my face as I brought up a command window. I established a secure connection to the network monitor in the makeshift server room I had set up at the back of the library. I had less qualms about doing this than I did searching the database—after all, users agreed to certain terms and conditions when they connected to the library network, and part of those terms and conditions was a disclaimer that mentioned that the network was monitored at all times by the network administrator. In this case, the network administrator was me.

It wasn't like I didn't occasionally peek at the encrypted wireless traffic to amuse myself.

“Any idea what his laptop's hostname is?” I asked.

“No.”

“Hmm...there's only seven active clients. Only two of them on the access point near that corner. One of them is using a lot of bandwidth, the other, not so much.” I glanced again at the corner. Sure enough, a table or two away from Mr. Shiny IFT Laptop was a young blond-haired man, crouched over a sleek black laptop that was roughly the size of a small boat anchor. His fingers mashed furiously on an innocent wireless mouse and every once in awhile his entire body twitched. He appeared to be talking to himself.

“I bet I can figure out who is using which laptop,” I whispered.

I selected one of the clients—the one that was using a truly astonishing amount of bandwidth—and added it to the firewall's “DROP” list. John looked like he was about to open his mouth. I held up a finger to shush him. He tilted his head but said nothing.

We waited. I watched the laptop users out of the corner of my eye.

The blond-haired man twitched again, then froze. Clicked the mouse tentatively, twice, then slammed it against the table. The peace of the library was shattered by a wavering, high-pitched shout, followed immediately by a chorus of shushes.

“NononononononononooooooooooooOOOOOOOOO! I _had_ him! Fucking _computer_.”

Reese raised his eyebrows. Smirking, I removed the firewall rule. “That is the impotent rage of someone who was disconnected while playing Team Castle 3 online, while simultaneously torrenting movies and downloading six files in a web browser. He's been using more bandwidth in the past...two hours...than most of our patrons do in a month. Now, the other guy...”

I loaded the list of websites he had visited in the past few hours, scrolled through the list, did a double-take, read some of the URLs more carefully—

_Oh my God_ , I thought. _Oh my_ God. I glanced up at John, wondering just how in the _hell_ he had known that this guy was up to no good, before dragging my eyes back down to the screen. Speechless, I turned the monitor to face John. He glanced through the list, took a picture with his cell phone, and nodded.

“Thank you, Elizabeth. Enjoy your tea.” He turned and began to walk away.

“Wait!” I called, then lowered my voice when John neared again. “Shouldn't we call the police?”

“And what happens then, Elizabeth? They might arrest him. Might not. He'll lawyer up; the lawyer will say that it's not illegal to visit those websites. It's not even illegal to search for information on how to make bodies disappear. He'll walk out of the police station tomorrow morning and then he'll find another way to kill his wife. Maybe he'll hire someone else to do it. The police won't stop him, Elizabeth, but I will. His wife is in danger. I can protect her. This is what I do, remember?”

My heart thudded against my chest. I whispered, “This is a hell of a lot different than rescuing someone from a cargo container, John!”

John glanced over towards the corner. The guy with the crew-cut was packing up his laptop, preparing to leave. “If I don't stop what he's planning, someone will be dead by the end of the day. Doesn't sound very different to me. Will you trust me, Elizabeth?”

Even as I considered the question, I knew there was no other answer but yes. John had saved my _life._ It was only reasonable that I trusted his methods.

I nodded quickly. “Yes,” I said. My voice shook. “Yes, of course, John.”

“Gotta go,” John said. “Stay strong, Elizabeth.” He turned and ambled for the front doors. A few moments later, the mysterious man from the corner passed the front counter, toting his laptop. He didn't look my way, but I still felt like he _knew_ somehow what I had just done, and I couldn't help but feel the slightest bit afraid.

Shaking, I took a long, sweet draft of tea. I hoped to hell that John really knew what he was doing...

 

#####

 

The incident—and the tea—energized me. My exhaustion was quickly forgotten. Frantic thoughts buzzed in my head throughout the afternoon—my God, the man with the laptop was planning to _murder_ his wife. And then hide the body, make it look like an accident. He'd looked like such a normal, well-adjusted, unlikely-to-murder-someone type of person!

Then again, I myself had learned the hard way that people were not always as innocent as they appeared...

What was John going to do? Rescuing someone from a sweltering cargo container and nursing them back to health—that was simple. Stopping a murder? Preventing the would-be murderer from trying to murder again? How was John going to pull _that_ off? What if the crew-cut guy had a gun? John looked like he could defend himself if he had to, but I doubted he was immune to bullets.

Several times that afternoon, my eyes wandered to the battered front desk phone and refused to look away. I stared at the dark gray phone. Noticed all the little details. The little chip missing from the speaker grill. The worn transfer button. The steady red power light. The simple, bold IFT logo on the top bezel.

_You should call the police_ , I thought to myself. _John may be your Batman, but he's mortal, just like you. The guy with the laptop is dangerous_. _He might hurt John. John might die. The man might kill his own wife._ _You have all the evidence you need on the computer. You should call the police..._

It would've been the wise and logical thing to do.

_But would it really help_? It sounded like John was well experienced in handling this kind of matter. Would calling the police do any good? Would it save Mr. Crew-Cut's wife? Would it stop Mr. Crew-Cut himself from hurting anyone?

If someone had given a key piece of information to the police instead of to John, would it have saved _my_ life when I had been left for dead? A piece of information that revealed _suspicious_ but not necessarily illegal behavior?

In the end, each time I was tempted to call, I forced myself to take a walk around the library, putting distance between me and the phone. I turned off my cell phone and hid it in my lunchbox in the staff room. I would not call. I trusted John.

The tea and the excitement both wore off around the time I clocked out, leaving behind a feeling of sick anticipation. I drove home through a haze of fatigue, riding on reflexes, navigating by rote. Unlocked my apartment door, slipped inside, locked the door again. I was far too exhausted to fix myself dinner, so I grabbed a cookie from on top of the refrigerator and all but collapsed on the couch, drawing a blanket around my body more for comfort than for warmth.

Nibbling on the oatmeal cookie, I clicked on the television just in time to catch a news broadcast.

“...received an anonymous tip that the alleged suspect, Benoît Raphael, was planning to murder his wife, Augustine Raphael. Police arrived on scene to find Mrs. Raphael shaken but unhurt.”

My jaw fell to the floor and so did the cookie.

_No. Way._

“According to Mrs. Raphael, her husband was attempting to strangle her in their home when a, quote, 'concerned third party' intervened.”

The camera cut to show a woman, perhaps thirty years old, with jet-black hair and creamy skin and a little too much makeup. “He came out of nowhere,” she said, in a voice just slightly tinged by a French accent. “This guy, in a three-piece suit. He pulled—he pulled that _monster_ off me. Saved my life. I don't even know who he _is_. If you're out there, watching this, whoever you are—thank you. Just—thank you.”

They cut back to the news anchor. “Benoît Raphael was found restrained in another room of the home. So far, there has been no sign of the suited Good Samaritan. Now let's check in with Dolan at the weather station—”

Fingers trembling on the remote, I changed the channel to another news station and waited impatiently for them to get the top story (Llama escaped from New York City Zoo, still at large) out of the way. My patience was rewarded when a picture of Mr. Crew-Cut was shown on screen again.

“A man named Benoît Raphael was arrested this afternoon for allegedly attempting to murder his wife...”

I clicked off the television.

_My God,_ I thought. _John did it. He really did it. He_ saved _her._ And then a moment later, my brain whispered, _And_ you _helped._ It was a strange thought. I had helped save someone's _life_. I'd never done anything that affected someone else on such a fundamental level. Sure, the encryption algorithms I wrote for Landis were used by millions of people every day, but that was different; what I had done today had played a small part in keeping another person alive. Living. Breathing.

I hadn't done much. I had barely done anything at all, really. If I hadn't been working at the library that day, or if Mr. Crew-Cut had gone to a different library, John probably would've been able to follow him around and kick his ass just the same when he tried to attack his wife.

But still...I had helped. That was pretty damn amazing.

For the first time since John had rescued me, I felt like I had managed to _do_ something—a trivial, insignificant something, but a something nonetheless—to pay back a small portion of the debt I owed John and the universe at large. I had made the world's smallest down payment on the loan for my second chance at life.

And it felt good. I wondered if John would give me the chance to do it again...

Sighing happily, I reached down to the floor and felt around for the cookie I had dropped. It was covered in hair and little bits of carpet. Even _I_ wasn't willing to eat that. Chuckling, I stood and padded into the kitchen, tossed the cookie in the garbage can beneath the sink, and reached for another one from the tin on top of the refrigerator. I deserved another cookie. I had helped save someone's _life_...

I slept a little better that night.

 

#####


	4. Chapter 4

**July 2011**

 

#####

 

Much as Harold Finch loathed to admit it, Landis made stout firewalls. The company was a believer in using what they produced, and so try as he might, Finch had been unable to gain access to the company's intranet from outside. Their embedded firewall software was exemplary.

The stubborn, childish IFT geek in Finch cringed at the perceived slight against his company, but there was no use denying it.

So Finch had sought an indirect approach into the Landis network. A close examination of the company's public-facing servers had revealed them to be running an old version of an open-source web server, on a Linux platform in dire need for security patches. Finding a usable exploit was, naturally, trivial. Within an hour, Finch had gained root access to every one of the public web servers, which sat outside the watchful firewalls protecting the company's internal network. Soon after, he had crafted a careful series of time-delayed surprises that would guarantee a chaotic distraction in the Landis offices shortly before 11AM the next morning; a perfect opportunity for a quick infiltration.

But then he had also found that one of the web servers was connected directly to the human resources database...and a different plan had come to mind. A slightly more risky plan, but one that would allow him to more quickly gather information on Elizabeth Ruben.

The plan would also put a temporary end to the endless playful jabs from Reese about how Finch needed to “get out more”--a pleasant bonus.

“I like the look, Harold,” said Reese. He circled his boss, who stood in the center of the library chamber. “You should wear it more often. Much more casual than your usual outfit. Makes you look less...owlish.”

Harold raised his eyebrows as Reese casually passed in front of him—again—but said nothing. He tied the striped red-and-black tie around his neck with practiced ease. He had abandoned his beloved tailored suits in favor of a pair of precision-ironed tan slacks, held up by an expensive maroon leather belt; a long-sleeved white shirt, tucked in at the waist; a pair of polished leather shoes, red leather to match the belt; and the striped tie. He wanted to look smart, dapper, but not excessive.

After all, Mr. Harold Starling had just been “hired” by Landis Technologies. It wouldn't do to show up sloppy to his first day of work, nor would it be appropriate to come to work overdressed.

Reese said, “I notice there's no fancy tie for me. Or shirt. Or pants. Are you expecting me to show up in my underwear?”

“Change of plans, Mr. Reese. I will be able to keep a closer eye on our Miss Ruben if I'm undercover at Landis for a longer period of time. With any luck, I'll also be able to find out what she is doing there and identify any threats.”

“And I'm not coming with you?”

“I'm afraid the technical nature of the work done at Landis Technologies is somewhat out of your league, Mr. Reese.”

“So you _are_ taking point. Very impressive, Harold. It's good for you to get out more often, especially if it's to see a young, intelligent, bookish woman who's good with computers.”

Finch glared. Reese put on that infuriating little smirk and said, “Gotta love a girl with good security habits. Right, Harold?”

“Mr. Reese, you are insufferable.”

Reese, still smirking, merely tilted his head ever so slightly.

Finch, satisfied that his tie was straight, glanced himself over in a portable mirror and then picked up a laptop case from the computer table, slinging the bag awkwardly over his stiff shoulder. Then he picked up a small black plastic case, about the size of a deck of playing cards, and handed it to Reese.

“What's this?” Reese said, turning the device over to examine it. The only breaks in the case were three holes on one side—a USB port, a network port, and a DC power port.

“It's a backdoor. When powered on, it attempts to contact the computers here at the library through any network to which it is connected. Once it links up, I can control it remotely and attack the network from within. It effectively bypasses most firewalls, since the initial connection occurs from inside the target network.”

“Very clever, Finch.”

“Install this in Miss Ruben's apartment and hide as best you can. If we're lucky, she'll have a network switch or router that supports power-over-Ethernet.” He pointed at a little round LED near the network port. “If the light blinks twice, you need do nothing more. If it doesn't, use a wall wart or a USB cable connected to a computer. Think you can handle it, Mr. Reese?”

“You'll turn me into a geek yet, Harold.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Reese. We'll see how you do this time. I'll call you once I've settled in at Landis.”

 

#####

 

The lock on the front door of Elizabeth Ruben's apartment offered only the most meager resistance to someone like John Reese. It took him slightly less than four and a half seconds to gain entrance. He locked the door behind him, sat his duffel bag down, and began to explore the apartment.

It was rather small. Cozy, in a way. The front door opened onto the living room. A modest LCD television sat on a wooden cabinet at one end of the room. One of the cabinet doors was open a ways, revealing a small DVD player and a VHS deck. The accompanying disks and cassettes had been stacked lazily on the shelf below. A simple coffee table sat in the center of the room, just in front of the mottled maroon couch. Decorations were sparse. Several photographs, some of which included an older, ginger-haired woman that Reese guessed was Elizabeth's mother; a few potted plants, gathering dust; candles on the coffee table. A window near the door let the golden morning light fill the room.

The kitchen adjoined the living room. Dishes were stacked in the little sink and a box of cereal sat on the tan tile counter. Reese glanced the room over, resolving to examine it more thoroughly later, when a small glint of silver beneath one of the counters caught his eye.

He bent down and retrieved the corner of a candy bar wrapper. From a Star-bar, it looked like.

Fusco _loved_ his Star-bars.

Reese peeked into the trash can beneath the kitchen sink, and sure enough, there was the rest of the wrapper, right on top.

“Lionel...” Reese muttered, shaking his head. He left the kitchen and made his way to the bedroom, to find that Fusco's description of a “bunch of” computers was a slight understatement.

“Great,” Reese said. “Just great.”

He counted nine computers and two laptops. The mismatched desktop towers were stacked two high and all faced backwards. Colorful cables hung from the back of each computer, snaking drunkenly across the beige carpet to vanish behind a wide wooden desk. Two large LCD monitors sat on the desk behind a keyboard and mouse. A fat gray network switch sat beside the monitors, and on top of it was the “wireless thingy”; a sleek black box with three angled antennas protruding from the back. Papers—presumably, the “geek notes”--were spread out on the right side of the desk.

Reese was amused to see that Elizabeth had covered the LED lights on most of the equipment with electrical tape.

The only other furniture was a tiny dresser, a bookcase stuffed with old paperbacks, and a small twin bed decked in plain white sheets. The room was unnaturally warm, no doubt from all the computer equipment.

Reese decided to install the backdoor before doing anything else. Backtracking to the living room, he hefted the duffel bag and brought it back to the bedroom. Opening it, he removed the tiny backdoor and a network cable, then gently rotated the wireless router on the desk so he could see the ports on the back, nestled between the antennas. Fortunately, there were several ports free. Plugging one end of the network cable into the backdoor, he plugged the other into the router and waited.

A little green light flashed twice on the backdoor. Satisfied, Reese used a piece of tacky adhesive to affix it to the underside of the desk, near the back, where Elizabeth would be very unlikely to find it—unless she noticed the extra cable attached to her router. Fortunately, the cable was the same color as the majority of the other cables connected to the router.

Team Machine now had access to Elizabeth's home network.

Reese moved the router back to its old position, then sat down at the desk and wiggled the mouse. The monitors lit up and presented a password prompt. Reese inserted Finch's trusty flash drive into the computer that appeared to be connected to the monitors.

The computer thought for a moment, then thumbed its nose as Reese by doing precisely nothing.

It figured that her computers would be immune to Finch's magic hacking flash drive. It just figured. Reese was beginning to regret the comment about the “girl with good security habits.”

Irritated, he examined the other computers. Most of them were off. A thought occurred to him: just how were the two monitors connected to all these computers? After comparing the connectors on each computer, he realized that they weren't. Only the computer closest to the desk had monitor cables attached to it, which meant that the others could probably only be accessed over the network. Which meant that they could only be accessed by Finch through his new backdoor—or by removing their hard drives and cloning them directly.

This was going to be a long, long morning.

Just for good measure, Reese tried the flash drive on the two laptops as well. Neither of them allowed him to bypass the password prompts, which meant that he had to resort to desperate measures.

Reaching into the duffel bag, he pulled out Finch's little laptop, its power supply, an external hard drive, a USB drive enclosure, and a small screwdriver. He set it all on the desk—careful not to disturb any of the papers—and connected the peripherals. He then selected his first victim: the nearer of Elizabeth's two laptops. Two screws and three minutes later, he had the tiny laptop hard drive removed from its bay and mounted in the enclosure.

Hoping to hell that the drive didn't have a hardware password, Reese ran the disk clone utility on Finch's laptop, selecting the massive external hard drive as the destination. He braced himself for disappointment, but was instead presented with an innocuous progress bar.

If something went wrong now—say, if the drive data was encrypted—Finch would get to deal with it, not him. Removing a hard drive was the limit of Reese's hacking abilities.

He leaned back in Elizabeth's surprisingly comfortable desk chair, and then, like an impulsive little kid, spun around twice. By the time he focused again on the laptop, the progress bar had presented a time estimate: one hour, eleven minutes remaining.

Reese used the time wisely. While the laptop cloned the hard drive, Reese searched Elizabeth's room. Carefully. Patiently. Methodically. Fusco was a decent detective—well, he was alright, kinda—but he didn't know how to spot hiding places the same way that Reese did. At least, not without leaving behind a mess.

Elizabeth would never know that Reese had been in her apartment.

He found a small wad of cash nestled beneath a stack of birthday cards in the desk drawer. Reese peeked inside one of the cards. In flowing cursive was the message: “I think of you every day, my beautiful daughter! See you in December. Love, Mom.”

Smiling sadly, Reese glanced through the other cards, then replaced them back in the drawer.

There was nothing hidden between the mattresses, under the pillow, or behind the drawers. No loose carpeting under which to hide things. No secret compartments in the books. Only plaster behind the photographs. Only electrical cables behind the light switches. Only motherboards, hard drives, and expansion cards inside the computer towers.

Reese sifted through the notes on the desk. They appeared to be mathematical equations and graphs of various curving lines—all completely foreign to Reese. Finch would have to decipher them. He snapped a few extra pictures of the notes.

Either Elizabeth was a criminal mastermind, or she was an innocent victim. So far, there was nothing out of the ordinary to suggest the former—just the belongings and sentimental knickknacks of an intelligent young woman whose computers were likely responsible for a significant portion of the building's electricity usage.

As Reese explored the room, he began to fashion a better idea of Elizabeth Ruben's habits and personality. The books in the shelves were clearly well-loved and oft-read: science fiction, mostly, with a few fantasy selections sprinkled in. He could imagine her curled up in bed, unwinding after a long day at the library; visiting the worlds crafted by Ursula Le Guin or Elizabeth Moon or A.E. Van Vogt—something Reese had done occasionally as a child, but rarely since.

Especially not with science fiction.

(He'd always been more of a detective novel kind of kid, really. Spaceships and aliens had never suited his fancy.)

Elizabeth appeared to spent a significant amount of time at the computer desk. The keyboard palmrest and the mouse buttons had been worn to a shine in places, and the chair, while comfortable, was tattered, revealing its stuffing in places. Food crumbs littered the the carpet around the base of the desk.

She really _was_ rather like Harold.

In the closet, Reese found a pair of black-and-pink roller skates gathering dust on the shelf. Two pairs of flat leather sandals on the floor and a pair of running sneakers still in their cardboard box. A pair of flat mary janes. There were boxes of photo albums. A clarinet case. Stacks and stacks of music CDs—Steely Dan, the Allman Brothers, and The Who, to name a few.

He checked inside every box and case in the closet, just to be sure.

Behind Reese, the laptop beeped, signaling that it was finished. Reese removed the drive from the enclosure, placed it back in Elizabeth's laptop. Then he extracted the drive from the other laptop and started it cloning as well.

The cell phone rang shortly after.

“How's it going, Harold?” Reese said.

“I'm currently engaged in the most undignified form of programming known to humankind, Mr. Reese. I've been asked to touch up some HTML files for a router configuration webpage." There was a burst of static, or maybe a cough, or a scoff; Reese couldn't tell which. “Technically, it's not even programming, because HTML is a markup language, not a—”

“Sounds like you're having fun, Harold.”

“I'm also getting to know several of Miss Ruben's co-workers. They're friendly, for the most part. A few of them are...questionable. One of them—Isaac, the man Elizabeth punched in the face— _despises_ Linux. Unfortunately for him, many of the Landis products are based around a hardened MIPS Linux kernel. We've already had an interesting debate on the nature of open-source software in the context of—”

“Glad to hear it. Listen, Finch, I installed the backdoor, but Elizabeth's computers seem immune to your hacker-in-a-stick. At least, the three with a monitor are.”

“Just how many computers are there, Mr. Reese?”

“Eleven.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Reese, would you say that again?”

“Eleven. I've cloned one of her laptops. Had to take the drive out to do it. You should give me a raise, Harold. I'm doing _your_ job.”

This time it wasn't static; it was a chuckle.

“Anyway,” Reese continued, “six of the other computers are off. I can clone their drives too, but it might take awhile.”

“I have a better idea. Mr. Reese, are there keyboards connected to these six computers?”

“No.”

“Then they likely won't have a power-on password. Turn them on.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. I'll access them over our new backdoor and scan them in-place.”

Reese switched on each computer. The room was soon filled with the hum of running equipment.

“Okay, Finch, they're on.”

“Excellent; I can ping them through the backdoor. We'll see if her computers are as difficult to crack as her router. Have you discovered any evidence indicating whether our Miss Ruben is soon to be a victim or a perpetrator?”

“No. I'll keep looking. Fusco may have missed something.”

“Keep me informed, Mr. Reese.”

“Will do. Try not to have too much fun without me, Harold.”

 

#####

 

While Reese searched Elizabeth Ruben's apartment room by room, Finch sat at a low cubical in an uncomfortably over-airconditioned office and juggled five tasks at once: keeping an eye on the brown-haired woman four cubicles away, testing the new backdoor at Elizabeth's apartment, exploring the Landis network, hacking the exterior firewall from within, and pretending to be enthusiastically typing out the _transcendentally_ riveting HTML code he had been asked to write.

The last task was by far the most difficult technical challenge Finch had encountered since he had begun working with Reese.

As Finch worked—pretended to work—pretended to be even _interested_ in working—he watched Elizabeth Ruben. She was in cyberspace, he could tell. On a roll. In the programming “groove”. The look of intense concentration on her freckled face belied it, as did the slow yet unfaltering dance of her fingers playing on the keyboard.

“Slow” compared to Finch, anyhow. But still, a respectable number of words per minute.

She typed steadily for a half-hour, rarely reaching for the mouse or looking away from the screen, until she was interrupted by an older man, perhaps thirty-five years old—Isaac Leroy. He had a mop of oily brown hair and a prominent nose. Beady eyes. Twitchy, gaunt hands.

Finch didn't like the way he leaned over Elizabeth, placing one hand on her desk.

She shook her head, dismissed him with a wave of her hand, but he wasn't about to give up so easily. He tapped her on the shoulder. Arms crossed, Elizabeth stood and got in his face—never mind that she was several inches shorter than the older man. She raised her eyebrows and glared while Isaac spoke, motioning angrily with his hands. Elizabeth interrupted him, shook her head again.

It didn't take the skills of a master lipreader to know that Elizabeth had just said “No.” Finch would have gladly given up a small fortune to know what they were discussing, but he had not been able to bluejack Isaac's phone.

Isaac grabbed Elizabeth's wrist. Alarmed, Finch stood—entirely too suddenly for his injured spine and leg, but he hardly noticed.

Elizabeth, her mouth set in a grim line, deliberately clenched her free hand and held it just beneath Isaac's nose, narrowing her eyes. Isaac said something, smirked, and rolled his eyes, but released her nonetheless. She stared after him, hands on her hips, as he walked away.

Finch quickly sat down before he drew attention to himself.

“Mr. Reese,” he whispered, “our Miss Ruben just had a rather physical spat with Isaac Leroy.”

“Did she punch him in the nose again?”

“No, but I can see why she did the first time.”

“Is she all right?”

Elizabeth calmly sat down at her computer, peered at the screen, and resumed typing. Finch felt a little smile form on his face.

“I believe so, Mr. Reese. I'll keep my eyes on her. I've very nearly cracked into the source code repository for the company, so I'll soon know what they're working on here at Landis. Anything new at the apartment?”

“Not yet, Finch. The second laptop is still cloning. I'm going through the kitchen now. I'll let you know what I find.”

Finch did his best to return to his “programming”, but try as he might, he couldn't convince himself to write a single HTML tag. He wasn't here to program, and he especially was not here to work on this... _disgraceful_ excuse for a configuration GUI. He was here to find out more information about Elizabeth Ruben, to find out if she was soon to be a victim or a perpetrator. Forcing himself to write HTML code wouldn't help anything. He needed to find out more information on Miss Ruben—before she became a threat or was imperiled.

Reese's voice echoed in his ear.

_It's good for you to get out more often, especially if it's to see a young, intelligent, bookish woman who's good with computers._

Unbidden, a fleeting thought crossed Finch's mind, a very Reese-esque thought: on occasion, the direct approach was the superior approach.

He frowned, tried to put the idea out of his head by focusing on the various windows arrayed on his monitor. Getting personal with a Number had numerous risks. He would never forget Jordan Hester, who had appeared innocent and intelligent and bookish at first yet had turned out to be a murderess, an identity thief, and a drug dealer.

Four cubicles away, Elizabeth typed steadily away, focused entirely on her work.

If Elizabeth Ruben was in fact nothing but the intelligent, slightly oblivious yet assertive young woman she appeared to be, and if Finch didn't make contact because of the mere _possibility_ that she was a murdering drug dealer, he might miss some crucial piece of information he needed to save her.

She could be hurt. Killed. And if that happened, and he knew he'd failed to act, he'd never forgive himself.

_You_ are _running point..._

Finch stood, took a deep breath. Smoothed his shirt. He thought to himself: _Nothing to it, Harold. Go up to Miss Ruben. Introduce yourself as the new employee. Ask her what she's working on; it'll doubtlessly be much more fascinating than fixing childish mistakes in a poorly-written HTML document._

He gulped.

_She's not a drug dealer, Harold. She's not Jordan Hester. You can talk to Miss Ruben. You have common ground between you. She has a Master's degree in computer science—almost. Close enough. Data compression, encryption, networking—whatever is her field of expertise, you can communicate with her._

_So go communicate. Now. Go on, go do it!_

Harold shuffled his feet. Took one halting step, then another.

_Smile, Harold_.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. He began to walk faster, more easily.

He was ten feet away from Elizabeth Ruben when Reese's voice crackled in his ear.

“Finch?”

Harold stopped, turned around. There was something alarming in Reese's tone of voice.

“Yes, Mr. Reese? What is it?”

“I found a gun in Elizabeth's apartment.”

Horrified, Finch turned again, ever so slowly, to see Elizabeth Ruben typing steadily away with a look of focused determination on her face...

 

#####


	5. Chapter 5

**July 2011**

 

Elizabeth Ruben had sequestered the little nylon gun case in the far back of the utility closet. Most of the space in the tiny compartment was taken up by a squat electric water heater and above that, an absurdly compact furnace. There was a wide shelf mounted near the ceiling. The shelf had been cut away to accommodate an air duct stretching upward from the furnace and the gun case had been nestled behind the duct, hidden from view by an empty cardboard box for a rechargable back massager.

Inside the gun case was a small black pistol, three empty magazines, and a box of bullets.

Reese called Finch, examining the gun as he spoke.

“It's a .22 caliber pistol,” he said. “Doesn't look like it's been fired for awhile, Finch.”

There was nothing but static on the line.

“Finch?”

“Yes, Mr. Reese, I heard you.” Was it some trick of the earpiece, or did Finch sound—disappointed? Angry?

“Everything all right, Finch?”

“Fine, Mr. Reese. Have one of the detectives run the serial number to see when it was acquired by Miss Ruben—if it is indeed hers to begin with.”

Reese took out his cell phone, fired up the camera app, and snapped a picture of the serial number stamped on the gun. Then, he hit speed dial.

A grumpy voice rasped in Reese's earpiece: “Fusco.”

“Hello, Lionel,” Reese drawled.

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“For starters, Lionel, I want you to be more _thorough_ when you search someone's apartment. We've been over this before. In the future, it would be very helpful if you manage to _find_ the gun that someone hid behind the furnace in the utility closet.”

“Wha—the Ruben girl?”

“That's right, Lionel. Next time, I'm not buying you a doughnut. You'll just have to bring an extra _candy bar_.”

Reese could just about hear Fusco squirming in his seat.

“Look, I didn't have time to turn the place upside-down. It took long enough going through her bedroom.”

“It might've gone faster if you hadn't spend so much time in her underwear drawer.”

Sputtering. “What—! I didn't—“

“I'm sending you a photograph of the gun's serial number. _Now_ what I want is for you to run it through the police database. Think you can handle that, Lionel? Search _thoroughly._ ”

“Yeah. Uh, I'll do it right now, hang on—“

Something clicked in the apartment entryway. Something that sounded suspiciously like a lock being turned—or picked.

“I'll have to call you back, Lionel,” Reese said. He slipped the gun back into its case, put the case back in the utility closet, and closed the closet door. Drawing his own weapon, Reese whispered, “Finch? Someone else is breaking into Elizabeth's apartment.”

“Oh dear. Please do be careful, Mr. Reese.”

Reese flattened himself against a wall perpendicular to the entryway, where he wouldn't be immediately seen by anyone coming in through the front door. There was more scrabbling at the lock, another click, and the door opened. Closed. Reese heard footsteps approaching. He thumbed the gun safety off.

A swarthy, bulky man, wearing jeans and a short gray T-shirt, walked right past Reese without realizing that anyone else was in the apartment. His black hair was cropped close to his head; he had the look of someone who spent too much time at the gym and Reese guessed he was about thirty years old. His hands were empty, but that didn't mean he was unarmed. A laptop bag hung from his shoulder.

Reese kept his gun trained on the man's back. The intruder peered around the living room, then spotted the open bedroom door and moved rapidly towards it. Reese followed, silent as the night.

Once in the bedroom, the man headed for Elizabeth's desk like iron fillings drawn to a magnet. He ignored Finch's laptop—which was still busy cloning the hard drive—and went right for the notes scattered on the desk. Unzipping the bag, he grabbed a handful of the notes and stuffed them inside.

“Hi there,” Reese said.

The man spun around, dropped the bag. His mustache twitched and his eyes were wide. He frantically dipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a switchblade, which he brandished in front of him, attempting to look as menacing as possible.

“Oh, buddy, I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Reese said, tilting his head.

Apparently the man wasn't in the mood to accept constructive criticism. Instead of taking the easiest (and least painful) way out, he lunged forward and swiped at Reese.

Who was holding a gun.

Amused, Reese avoided the attack and knocked the knife out of the would-be thief's hand. Momentum betrayed the intruder; he went right past Reese, who grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it sharply behind his back, forcing the man face-down to the floor.

“Let go of me, asshole!” the man shouted. Reese twisted the man's arm harder, turning the thief's angry bellowing into gasps of pain. He tapped the barrel of his gun against the back of the man's head.

Finch's frantic, tinny voice buzzed in Reese's ear. “Mr. Reese? What's going on?”

“It's not polite to call people names,” Reese said to the man, with the same conversational air one might use when considering what to order at a restaurant. “Especially not someone who's pointing a gun at your head. Let's start over. Hi. My name is John. What's your name?”

 _“Oww_! God _damn_ it. The man hadn't yet realized that struggling did little more than encourage Reese to force his arm into an even more unnatural and painful position. Reese ground the thief's face into the carpet.

“Nice to meet you, Goddamnit. See? We're on better terms already. What are you doing in this apartment? Who sent you after the notes?”

“I don't know! _Fuck_ , man, I don't know! They set it up by email, OK? Anonymous, didn't know who, didn't ask.”

“How much were you paid? What were you instructed to do?”

“Just—shitshitshit, owww, _shit!--_ it just said to take the notes! Said to take the notes and get rid of them. That's all it said, I swear! I'm getting paid thirty thousand bucks in bitcoins. Ten down, twenty later.”

_“When?”_

“T-t-tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Goddamnit,” Reese said. Then he clubbed the man on the back of the head. He collapsed, unconscious.

He tapped his earpiece. “Finch,” he said, “the guy was after Elizabeth's notes. Given his schedule, I think that whatever is going to happen is going to happen today. Elizabeth may be in danger.”

“What do you suggest, Mr. Reese?”

“Stick close to her, Finch. I'll wrap things up here and meet you later.”

He signed off and got to work. The first order of business was to restrain the thief. Fortunately, Elizabeth kept a roll of duct tape beneath the kitchen sink; it was quite effective at binding the unconscious man. Next, Reese put the notes back on the desk, getting them as close to their original position as possible; he accomplished this by referring to the pictures he had taken earlier. Reese scooped up the knife, checked the man's pockets to ensure he had nothing he could use to free himself. He found a cell phone and took it.

The second hard drive finished cloning several minutes later. Reese put the hard drive back in Elizabeth's laptop, packed away the equipment he had brought, ensured that everything was as it had been (except for, of course, the unconscious man bound on the floor), grabbed his duffel bag, and headed for the entryway. He made sure to leave the front door open a crack as he stepped outside.

Reese walked down the front path and dialed his cell phone.

“Hello, Detective Carter,” he said. “I have a present all wrapped up for you...”

 

#####

 

Finch kept a wary eye on Elizabeth Ruben throughout the day. At noon, she ate lunch—at her desk. Afterwards, she took a break and went for a walk—around the perimeter of the office. Then she returned to her computer and started typing again.

Dedicated, indeed. Or, perhaps obsessed with her programming project. Finch could most definitely relate.

The subjugation of the Landis intranet was proceeding nicely. Finch had compromised an administrator account and then added a set of rules to the external firewall, allowing him to later access the Landis systems via the Internet. He had installed several remote backdoor rootkits into key servers and he almost, _almost_ had the stubborn source code repository server under his control. He had even finished the HTML coding he had been assigned, albeit with much grumbling and muttering about how anyone who found this sort of work to be fun must have been from Mars.

He had also gained access to three of Miss Ruben's home computers—via vulnerabilities in various daemons and services running on each one—and would soon have access to four more. The young woman may have employed excellent wireless encryption, but she didn't keep up with security patches very well. The computers in her apartment were busy compressing their own files and sending them through the backdoor to Finch's computers at HQ for later analysis. Unsurprisingly, Miss Ruben's home Internet connection was proving to be a bottleneck, but he was confident that he would have the contents of at least half the computers downloaded by this evening...

Assuming it wasn't too late by then.

Finch hoped that Reese's interruption of the break-in at Elizabeth Ruben's apartment would preclude any sort of excitement today. He wasn't confident that he would be able to do to protect Elizabeth Ruben from harm (or prevent her from causing harm) here at the Landis offices. Finch didn't have any sort of weapon. His sole self-defense technique, emphasis on the _self,_ was to poke someone in the eye. And while it had a 100% real-world success rate—he had tried it once, and it had worked, giving a ratio of 1 out of 1—he wasn't confident it would ward off a determined attacker. He could only hope that no one would come after Elizabeth in such a public location.

He tried not to think about it too much. Instead, he focused his attention on the mysterious notes that had been found on Miss Ruben's desk. They appeared to be incomplete, but the information present was leading Finch to believe that they were portions of a cryptography algorithm. He did his best to fill in the unknown parts of the algorithm—which, he had to admit, was delightfully puzzling—in between conquering servers and watching Elizabeth Ruben type.

At 12:52PM, a young man named Bobby Tam stopped at Miss Ruben's desk. Finch had met him briefly earlier in the morning; he seemed friendly enough, if a little shy and socially awkward. A hectic nest of black hair; scuffed black leather shoes; a shirt with an uneven, wrinkled collar; black slacks, faded in places—his appearance was rather shabby, but Finch had seen several of Mr. Tam's Linux shell scripts in his exploration of the Landis network, and he recognized the potential behind that succinct, efficient code.

Tam stayed only for a minute or so, and when he left, Elizabeth was smiling.

At 2:21PM, Tara Dodson tapped Elizabeth Ruben on the shoulder. Finch couldn't help but notice that the two women was very nearly opposite in appearance. Elizabeth wore her blue dress and flat sandals, with shoulder-length hair and very little jewelry to speak of; Tara wore a tailored gray suit, unstably high heels, and far too many bracelets and earrings. Her ginger hair was cropped quite short. Unlike with Miss Ruben's other coworkers, Finch had a vague notion of the subject of their conversation; the lanky older woman had quite a boisterous voice, and it carried.

“I didn't see your code commit in mainline today, Lizzy,” Tara said.

Miss Ruben, who looked quite irritated at the sudden interruption—or perhaps at the nickname—said something in return.

“What do you mean, it's not done?” said Tara.

Another response, this one more snappish.

“Testing is for the QA monkies. The firmware ships in six weeks. We're waiting on _your_ code, Elizabeth. Just commit what you have.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. Raised her eyebrows. Her curly hair bounced as she shook her head.

“Fine. Do it your way.” Tara jabbed a finger at Elizabeth. “But if the firmware ships late, I don't care who roots for you this time—I'll make sure you're out. Got it?”

In response, Elizabeth turned back to her computer. Tara caught sight of Finch's stare and said, “What are you looking at, bozo? Get back to work!”

“Yes, ma'am.” Gulping, Finch buried his head in his monitor.

At 3:37PM, Reese reminded Finch that he was one-sixteenth ninja by blood.

“Hello, Harold.”

Finch jerked in his chair, readjusted his glasses, and glared at Reese, who was casually leaning on the desk. Finch hadn't noticed his approach.

“How did you get in here, Mr. Reese?”

“Charming smile. A little research, some social engineering. The receptionist? He's a bit, uh, dense.”

“So I noticed,” Finch said dryly.

Reese reached into his pocket, withdrew a cell phone, and set it on the desk in front of Finch. “I took it off our thief,” said Reese. “There's a few emails on it, but they're encrypted.”

“I'll trace them as soon as I get back to the library,” Finch said, examining the phone and then pocketing it. “Did you hear back from Detective Fusco yet?”

“He's better at searching a weapons database than he is at searching an apartment. The gun belongs to Shannon Ruben. Elizabeth's mother.”

“So either she stole it, or her mother gave it to her.”

“Fusco says it hasn't been used in a crime.”

Finch glanced up at Elizabeth, who was _still_ at her desk, programming away. She had been sitting for hours straight. “Perhaps her mother gave it to her for self-defense, anticipating a break-in such as the one that occurred today.”

“Maybe. But putting it behind an air duct on a shelf that high up? She'd have to get a stepladder to reach it. That's not the mindset of someone who would need to get to it in a hurry.” Reese paused, quirked a grin, and added, “Fusco would need a ladder, too.”

“So either Miss Ruben isn't intending to use the gun, or she's hiding it.”

“Hard to tell which. Have you figured out the notes from her desk yet?”

Finch held up the yellow legal pad that contained all of his calculations and pseudocode.

“As far as I've been able to reconstruct, it's a rather unique take on an eliptic-curve cryptography scheme.”

“Is that a yes or a no, Harold?”

“I've figured out enough to know that, if properly translated into an algorithm, it would be far more efficient than traditional public-key algorithms. An eliptic-curve solution will run much faster than an RSA algorithm on the same hardware, and for a company like Landis—which writes software for devices with limited CPU power—this could _really_ put them ahead of the competition.”

“Still waiting for a yes or a no, Harold.”

Finch fixed Reese with an undefinable _look_.

“If I had to guess, Mr. Reese, I would say that our Miss Ruben is on the verge of a breakthrough in cryptography routines—and someone else wants her algorithm very badly.”

Reese scratched his chin, considering the possibilities. “They want it badly enough to kill her, steal her notes, and publish them under their own name?”

“A likely scenario, Mr. Reese. The algorithm would be quite valuable.”

“So who are we dealing with here, Finch?” Reese eyed the occupants of the office. “Who would want this algorithm? There's at least a hundred people in this office.”

“And nearly any of them could be the perpetrator. Many of the people here specialize in network security or encryption.”

“Assuming we don't have it backwards. _She_ could be the perpetrator, Finch. Maybe she's fed up with her coworkers. Or maybe she's about to murder her boss because he doesn't pay her enough for her talent.”

Again with the _look._

“Mr. Reese, if you truly want a raise, all you have to do is ask. Although, your alternative scenario is plausible. One of Miss Ruben's coworkers, Tara Dodson, is quite the acerbic individual.”

“That's a polite way to put it,” said Reese.

“Unfortunately, there's not much more we can do until I can return to the library and analyze all the information I've pulled from the Landis servers and Miss Ruben's home computers. We'll simply have to protect her as best as we can until then.”

Reese stiffened.

“Protecting her might be difficult, Finch.”

“What? Why?”

“Because she just slipped away.”

Finch looked up to see that Elizabeth Ruben's desk was no longer occupied. Frantic, he peered around the room and caught sight of her just as she stepped into a lift, head down, fingers tapping out a message on her cell phone.

“Stay here,” said Reese. He ran for the lifts.

 

#####


	6. Chapter 6

**September 2011**

 

I raised the pistol, clicked off the safety, exhaled, and fired. One shot, two—I could tell already that my aim had been blown, because my hands were trembling and I had winced at the first shot, _again_ , and then at the second and third shots too, but I kept squeezing the trigger, over and over again—three, four-five—

The heavy hearing protection around my head reduced the sharp cracks of the gun to dull, muffled pops.

—six, seven—

My wrists were getting sore.

—eight-nine—

Ten shots. When I pulled the trigger for the eleventh time, there was nothing but a click. The slide had gone back all the way. My hands gripped the gun as though it was a drowning swimmer's lifeline. I didn't want to let go. I kept it out in front of me, held it there, as though I could will one last bullet from the muzzle with sheer, primal thought. The barrel trembled and wavered.

After a long, long time, I relaxed my arms, clicking the safety on as I did so, just like Mama had taught me so many years ago. I released the magazine and set it and the gun on the counter, keeping the barrel pointed downrange.

 _I wonder how many hit this time,_ I thought glumly.

Turned out, I managed to hit the target five times. Once in the shoulder. Once in the chest. Once in the finger. _In the finger,_ right at the tip of the pinky. Once in the neck—all right, it was a graze, but it still counted.

And once right between the eyes.

It felt pretty good until I realized that as many bullets had missed the target entirely than hit. Thankfully, there was no one else in the place but the range officer to see that, and he was sixty feet away.

 _Damnit_ , I thought. _Even worse than last time_. _Maybe I should move the target closer..._

So I put up a new target and sent it out only twenty feet this time. Checked downrange. Slid a new magazine into place. Pulled back the slide. Raised the gun. Clicked off the safety.

“Come on, Mama,” I whispered. “Help me here.”

Squeezed the trigger.

One, two—

 _For heaven's sake_ , I thought. _You blew it_ again.

This time, seven of the bullets found their mark. Sighing, I set the safety on the gun and set it down on the counter. Took off the bulky ear plugs.

“You know,” said a familiar crooning voice behind me, “you're allowed to take a break between bullets.”

I spun around, and sure enough—“John!” Leaning against the back wall, arms folded across his chest, looking like he owned the place. (Could he possibly look any other way?) The yellow-rimmed safety glasses protecting his eyes did nothing to diminish his presence.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said.

“How long have you been watching?”

A tiny shrug. “Oh, the past twenty minutes or so.”

I felt the blood rush to my face. So he had seen me when I had missed the target with all but one bullet.

“I'm not very good,” I muttered. “I just—needed an outlet.”

“The RSO says you've been coming here two or three times a week for the past three weeks.”

“Yeah...” I glanced at the gun. “At first, I just wanted to see if this thing still shot. I wasn't planning on being a repeat customer.”

John unfolded his arms, ambled over to the station, and motioned to the gun. “May I?”

“Uh—yeah.”

He picked up the pistol. His movements were smooth, confident, yet safety-conscious—not all overcautious and nervous like I was when I picked up a firearm, telling myself over and over: don't point the barrel where you don't want a bullet to go, don't point the barrel where you don't want a bullet to go...

“Ruger Mark II,” John said, hefting the pistol. “Nice beginner's weapon. Old one, but in good condition.”

“It was my mother's,” I said. “She gave it to me when I moved to New York. Said she wanted me to be able to protect myself.” I laughed, but it was not a pretty sound—a short, high-pitched cough. “Did me a lot of good, didn't it?”

“You just need practice, Elizabeth. Would you like some tips?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that.”

John checked to make sure the chamber was empty, slid in an empty magazine, then handed the gun to me. He stood beside and just slightly behind me. “No bullets at first. Hold it out like when you shoot. Finger away from the trigger.”

Uncertain, I held the gun in front of me. Without the bullets, it was noticeably lighter, and slightly unbalanced.

“Don't lean back,” he said. His voice was neutral—not judgmental, not critical, just giving advice. He tapped my sneaker with his foot. “Spread your feet just a little more. That's good. Relax your shoulders. Bend your knees slightly. That's good. Now, in a minute, you're going to shoot. And you're probably gonna lock your knees, or lean back, or tense up your shoulders. That's okay. Don't worry about it. We have lots and lots of bullets and you can try again as often as you like.”

I laughed again, and this time, it sounded a little more like the real thing.

“The important thing is that you become comfortable firing your weapon...one bullet at a time. Now, put out a target and put your ear plugs back on.”

Once I had the heavy hearing protection over my ears, John had to speak louder. But somehow, his voice was still gentle.

“Check the range and load your weapon. Keep the safety on and don't shoot until I tell you.”

I slid in a magazine. Pulled back the slide. Felt it move forward and stop with a thunk. Kept the gun pointed downrange, barrel up.

“Here's what's going to happen,” John said. “I'm going to tell you to shoot, and you're going to take your time. Don't rush. Wait until you're ready, then shoot—once.” He held up his index finger. “And you'll wait until I tell you before shooting again. Understand?”

I nodded.

“Gun up, safety off.”

John stepped a little further behind me. I held out the gun, flipped the safety with my thumb. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the way the barrel wavered. I hoped John couldn't see it.

“Fire,” John said.

I squeezed off a single shot immediately, winced, then began to berate myself—I had meant to wait! The ejected shell bounced against the floor with a near-inaudible clank.

John waited several seconds. “Fire.”

This time, I took a long, deep breath, then exhaled. Squeezed the trigger. Another shell fell to the floor. The target twitched as the bullet passed through it.

And then I realized I was leaning back, because John had placed his hand on my shoulder and was gently but firmly pushing me forward until I was back upright.

A pause.

“Fire.”

A breath. A shot.

“Fire.”

The target fluttered. I could hear my pulse pounding steadily in my ears.

“Fire.”

 _Look at me now, Mama_ , I thought.

“Fire.”

Breathe. Squeeze the trigger.

“Fire.”

Another shot. Again, John's hand on my shoulder. My body quivered.

“Fire.”

I was obviously hitting the target each time, but I couldn't see where.

“Fire.”

There was one more bullet left. I waited for John to give the order to let it fly.

“Cease fire.”

I squeezed the trigger.

 _Shit!_ I thought, just as the gun went off. The tinkle of the brass hitting the floor sounded like a shattering vase. The barrel of the gun was _really_ shaking now. I had to work up the nerve to look over at John, but he didn't seem angry. He had his usual impassive stare on his face—maybe an eyebrow quirked just slightly.

“That was kinda unfair,” I said, clicking on the safety.

“Guns are unfair, Elizabeth. If there had been someone out on the range just then, you might've killed them. That's hardly fair.”

It was a good point, but it didn't make me feel much better.

“Let's see how you did before we try again.”

Turns out, I did pretty good. All ten shots hit the target, although it looked more like someone had been firing a shotgun than a pistol.

“Not bad, Elizabeth. Let's do it again...”

This time, I listened to John much, much more carefully.

 

#####

 

We went through dozens of magazines' worth of bullets. John stood behind me, his warm hand on my shoulder as he offered patient words of advice and encouragement, boosting my confidence, my accuracy. His voice was soothing, relaxing. After a time, it put me into a trance—the only things in my little universe were me and the voice and the gun and the target, nothing else. There came a point where I missed the target only once or twice out of every fifty shots, even as John set the target back further. My hands still shook around the gun, but not nearly as much. I was learning to relax. To keep myself from flinching at each shot.

John threw in a “cease fire” every few dozen shots, just to keep me on my toes. Each time, I tilted the barrel up, clicked on the safety, and waited until he gave me permission to shoot again. John seemed pleased with my progress, and hinted that he would teach me more another day, so long as he wasn't caught up playing Batman.

Near the end, I asked him to show me how well _he_ could shoot. He shrugged, picked up the pistol, and put all ten rounds through the target's head. At 75 feet.

I wasn't sure I wanted to know where he had learned to use a gun like that.

When we walked out of range it was four o'clock in the afternoon; I had shown up a little before noon. I felt much more relaxed, much more at peace than I had when I had woken from yet another suffocating dream that morning.

In the parking lot, John said, “You want a cup of tea?”

He drove my car. We stopped at a little cafe about five minutes away, a place called the Zhatigan. Not one of those fancy, expansive, ultra-modern coffee shops, the ones that existed only to sell overpriced coffee and teas to people that couldn't taste the difference between good drinks and swill; no, this petite cafe was a narrow hole-in-the-wall, tucked between a small crafts store and an insurance agency. Crumbling brick walls, low lighting, improvisational jazz music playing from battered speakers. The walls behind the counter were lined with square jars of tea leaves. I rather liked the place.

I ordered black tea—with one honey—and John ordered plain coffee. I tried to pay for my own drink out of principle, but John wouldn't hear of it.

“Think of it as a thank-you for helping with Benoît Raphael,” he said.

We sat at a spindly metal-wire table on the sidewalk outside and sipped our drinks. For a little while, we watched the cars drive down the avenue and the people stroll down the sidewalk.

“How'd you know?” I asked John suddenly. “About Benoît. How'd you know he was going to go after his wife?”

“I'm observant,” John said. He kept his gaze on the street.

“Uh-huh. And me? How'd you know a lil' ol' geek like me was in trouble?”

“I have my sources.”

“Tease. You're not going to tell me about these sources, are you?”

“I can tell you that they're never wrong. Nothing else.”

“Kinda of an I'd-tell-you-but-I'd-have-to-kill-you thing?”

“I wouldn't kill you, Elizabeth,” John said. He turned his head to look at me. “But other people would. I don't want that to happen.”

“Oh,” I said, for lack of a more intelligent response. It was hard to tell if John was being serious or not.

A cell phone rang—not mine, because I kept it on silent. John reached up and tapped his ear. “Yeah, Finch?” he said. There was several seconds of silence, a brief “Will do,” and he tapped his ear again.

Looking closely, I realized that he had some sort of wireless earpiece—one of least obvious I had ever seen—connected to his phone. I hadn't even know they made Bluetooth receivers that tiny.

“Duty calls,” John said. He stood and chucked his drink cup into the garbage can. “Sorry, Elizabeth.”

“Someone else in trouble?”

“Seems like it.”

“Can I help again? Anything you need. I'll do it.”

He seemed to consider this. “Not this time, Elizabeth.” he said at last. “Enjoy your tea.” He patted my shoulder twice and walked away, heading down the sidewalk. He turned a corner and was gone.

I couldn't help but pout all the way back to my apartment.

 

#####

 

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said, “I'm not sure I approve of your relationship with Miss Ruben.”

Reese circled the computer desk as Finch tapped away at the keyboard, querying countless databases for information on their newest number.

“It's not a relationship, Finch. She's an asset.”

“So is Detective Fusco. It took you two years to buy _him_ so much as a doughnut. It's been less than four months since you rescued Elizabeth Ruben and you've already bought her tea twice. Not to mention instructing her in the use of deadly firearms.”

“She _did_ help us with Raphael, Harold. And if she owns a gun, she should know how to use it responsibly.”

“Yes, but—”

“Harold, you're not upset at Elizabeth because you _still_ haven't been able to hack into the network at her library, are you?”

Finch glared up at Reese, irritation evident on his face. “Where did you get this preposterous notion, Mr. Reese?”

“Why, Harold, there's no need to be snappy. I'm sure you'll get it one of these days. After all, you can hack the Pentagon, the Department of Defense, and the entire New York cellular network. A simple wireless network set up by a young college intern shouldn't be _any_ trouble for someone who can make every ATM in the city simultaneously beep _Bohemian Rhapsody_ —”

“Mr. Reese, while this conversation has the potential to become very memorable, I suggest we focus on our newest Number.”

“Whatever you say, Harold...”

 

#####


	7. Chapter 7

**July 2011**

 

The lift arrived at the ground floor. Reese stepped into the lobby just in time to see the glass exit doors swing shut behind Elizabeth Ruben.

“I got her, Finch,” Reese said, tapping his earpiece. He ran across the spacious lobby, dodging office workers. “Following her outside.”

“Be careful Mr. Reese.”

“Why, thanks, Harold. Here I was planning on taking a lot of unnecessary risks today.”

“Ha-ha.”

There were two large fountains a short ways away from the building, one on either side of the wide cobblestone path. Each fountain was backed by a long, curved waterfall, which fell over the Landis company logo and splashed back to the blue-tiled pool. Elizabeth had stopped at one of the fountains and was sitting on the wide cement rim, her hands in her lap, her legs crossed at the ankles. She wiggled her sandals and peered around.

Several seconds later, a man with slick brown hair brushed past Reese, walked to the fountain, and sat down next to Elizabeth.

“Finch, she's meeting someone. Sending you a picture.”

“That's Issac Leroy, Mr. Reese; Miss Ruben's coworker.”

Reese sauntered towards the opposite side of the fountain, being careful not to appear interested in the two workers sitting at the edge. He faced away from them, watching out of the corner of his eye. The steady splashing of the waterfalls made it difficult to hear their conversation. He would've liked to be closer, but he didn't think he could get any nearer without attracting attention.

Isaac was talking. Reese struggled to hear over the noise.

“...wanted to apologize...asshole lately...”

Elizabeth spoke louder. “You _think_?”

“...stressed...”

“I'm stressed too, Isaac. I'm not being an ass.” Elizabeth sighed, hunching her shoulders. “What's wrong?”

“...hard to explain...shouldn't have brought it up...just wanted apologize for...could make it up...dinner tonight?”

“Awww, thanks, Isaac. But I gotta finish coding this routine.”

“...work too hard, Elizabeth.”

“Bad habit, I know. Maybe another time? Look, I gotta get back upstairs...”

“...see you later.”

Reese turned away as Elizabeth walked past him, her sandals tapping on the cobblestones as she headed for the gleaming entryway of the Landis building. Reese was about to follow her back to the office when he noticed Isaac pull out a cell phone and flip it open. Isaac laboriously typed out a text message and sent it by squeezing the phone hard enough to make his hand tremble. Glancing around, he headed back inside as well. Reese followed.

“Finch? Elizabeth just turned down a dinner offer from Isaac. He seems a little...aggravated. I'll keep an eye on him.”

 

#####

 

Reese took a small sip of coffee, put the cup back in the holder, and leaned back in his seat. Night had fallen. Elizabeth Ruben was safely in her bedroom. If the light was any indication, she was still awake. Reese had once again parked a ways down the street—in a different car than the one he had used the night before. He had coffee, he had a doughnut, he had binoculars, and he had an empty water bottle—everything he needed for a long night of surveillance.

“So, Finch,” he said. “What did you find out about Elizabeth and her coworkers?”

Even over the phone, Reese could hear Finch's fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

“I'm still processing the information from Miss Ruben's home computers,” he said, sounding rather like a little boy in a candy store, despite the fact that it was nearly 11 o'clock at night. “The ones she leaves running at all times, that is. More data is coming in every minute. I had to set up another RAID cluster just for Miss Ruben's data. You wouldn't _believe_ the amount of information she stores on her home network.”

“It can't be any more unbelievable than a massive supercomputer that spots crime before it happens, Harold.”

“Point taken, Mr. Reese. _Any_ way...Miss Ruben is indeed working on security algorithms for a new line of Landis routers for homes and small businesses. She specializes in wireless security, it appears. I have seen her source code commits on the Landis systems and I must say, they are quite elegant. However, I can only find isolated snippets of source code related to elliptic-curve cryptography. There is an encrypted partition on her main desktop, and it is frequently accessed. She probably keeps all her sensitive code there.”

“Can you decrypt it?”

“Working on it as we speak, Mr. Reese. It's proving unusually recalcitrant. I'm also attempting to trace the encrypted emails from the thief's cell phone. It seems they were sent from a throw-away email account registered through the Tor anonymity network. We probably won't be able to find whoever hired the thief that way.”

“Great.”

“However, I _have_ been able to find a plethora of information on Elizabeth Ruben's coworkers at Landis...” There was a pause, and Reese's phone lit up with a new message. “I've sent you pictures of three of her coworkers, the ones with whom she interacts most often. You briefly met Isaac Leroy.” The picture popped up on Reese's phone. “Thirty-three years old, full time employee; he is assigned as Miss Ruben's mentor at Landis. His father died of a stroke two years ago; his mother lives in Alaska. Mr. Leroy is a very, shall we say, _creative_ programmer, although his formatting leaves much to be desired. However, I must wonder how much of the code he submits is actually his. I found quite a bit of Miss Ruben's source code on his workstation. It appears that each time she uploads her work to the company source code repository, Mr. Leroy's workstation downloads a complete copy, even if it was marked as a private branch.”

“He's trying to steal her work?” Reese reached into a paper bag, broke off a tiny chunk of the doughnut, and nibbled on it, savoring the bittersweet chocolate. He caught a glimpse of movement at Elizabeth's apartment and quickly raised the binoculars to his face. But it was only the young programmer herself, fetching yet another cookie from atop the refrigerator in the kitchen.

“It is quite possible, Mr. Reese. Mr. Leroy's finances are irregular as well. In the past week, he's transferred thirty thousand dollars to an offshore account in regular increments under five thousand dollars each.”

“The crook that broke into Elizabeth's apartment said he was going to get paid that exact amount.”

“Yes. It's also worth mentioning that Mr. Leroy now has only ninety-two dollars to his name.”

“Well, he _could_ be our guy...maybe he's gambling on a big payoff. Something feels funny about him though. What about the others?”

“The second one is Tara Dodson. Thirty-seven years old, full-time employee. She's a project manager at Landis. She specializes in low-level network protocols and is a decent programmer. Her mother and father own a trucking company called Fandango Transportation. Nothing strange about her finances that I can find, but I'll keep digging.”

“And the third?”

“Bobby Tam. Thirty years old, was just hired last year as a full-time worker at Landis. He's a system administrator and maintains many of their servers. He's exceptionally skilled at Linux shell scripts and Perl programming. Stable finances, resides with family here in New York. His father owns a computer store in Queens and his mother is a chef at a small bistro.”

“Who has the most to gain by stealing Elizabeth's algorithm?”

“Hmm. If I had to guess, Mr. Reese, I would say either Dodson or Leroy.”

“Maybe you should tail one of them around tomorrow while Elizabeth is at the library. I can follow the other one.”

“What about Miss Ruben? I hope you don't plan to leave her unprotected. It is possible we missed a potential perpetrator at the 94th street library.”

“I'm sure Fusco could appreciate a good book or two.”

“I somehow think not. In the meantime, I'll continue to sort the data as it comes in. There is enough information here already to analyze for weeks...”

“Don't forget to sleep sometime tonight, Finch.”

“Pray tell, how much have _you_ slept in the past forty-eight hours, Mr. Reese?”

“Enough. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Finch. Get some rest.”

“You should as well, Mr. Reese. Good luck with the surveillance.”

He signed off, and the car was silent.

 

#####

 

Detective Carter showed up a few minutes past midnight. She swung her slender frame into the car and leaned back in the passenger-side seat, setting a large thermos down by her legs.

“Good evening, Detective. What brings you here?”

“I got Finch to tell me where you were. Wanted to talk to you.” She looked around the dark neighborhood. “Which apartment are you watching? The one with the light on?”

“Yep.”

A quiet scoff. “Looks like we're not the only ones staying up past bedtime.”

“She went to bed at about nine last night,” Reese said. “Odd schedule.”

“Staying up late for work, maybe. Doesn't she have two jobs?”

“She attends college, too. Friday and Saturday night classes.”

Carter shook her head, eyes wide. “Not enough hours in the day for all that.”

“She seems the type to work herself to exhaustion.”

“Uh-huh. Look who's talking. How long have you been following her around?”

“Oh, the past two days.”

“And how much sleep have you gotten in the past two days?”

“Enough.”

“John—how much?”

Reese turned his head to glance at Carter. “Did Finch ask you to play mother hen?”

Carter shrugged. “He might've mentioned that he thought you were overworked. I volunteered to come check on you. It beats late-night paperwork at the precinct.”

“I'm more exciting than a bunch of dead trees?” Reese grinned. “Good to know.” There was another flicker of movement at the apartment. He raised the binoculars again, while Carter leaned forward in her seat and squinted. It was Elizabeth. She appeared to be pacing throughout the apartment. Every so often, she ran her fingers through her hair.

“She looks nervous,” Reese said softly.

“Have you guys figured out why she's in trouble yet?”

“We're still working on it.” Reese watched Elizabeth disappear back into her bedroom. “What did you want to talk to me about, Carter?”

“Aside from trying to get you to take care of yourself every once in awhile?”

“Yeah. Aside from that.”

Carter sighed. “It's Donnelly. He's got a task force after you again. Not real big. Maybe four, five guys.”

“Another fan club. Does he want my autograph?”

“John, seriously. He's got a new tack. Now he's trying to find people you've helped to see if they can point him to you. He's got his ear to the ground, listening for anybody who says they got saved by some guy in a suit.”

“And how's that working out for him?”

Carter chuckled, shook her head. “I think he's just happy to be out of that hospital and back in the field. I know I'd be.”

“Kara used to shoot better than that. He should be glad he's alive.”

“He is. He says, first thing he's gonna do when he finds you? Thank you personally for saving his life. _Then_ he'll arrest your ass.”

“He won't find me, Carter.”

“Are you _sure_ Finch fixed your phone?”

“I haven't gotten caught again, have I?”

She sighed, shook her head. “You'd damn well better hope he doesn't get to you again,” she said. “I can't take another Rikers, John. I just can't. And neither can you.”

A tiny shrug, that was the only response. Carter waited for him to say something more, but the man next to her stayed frustratingly quiet. She knew she wouldn't get much more out of him tonight, not unless she pulled out the big guns. And she would've, too, if it hadn't been for Elizabeth passing the window of her apartment yet again, reminding Carter that someone's life might've depended on the two of them staying alert and on-task.

“John?” said Carter.

“Yes?”

“Give me those damn binoculars and go to sleep. I'll wake you in four hours.” She rattled the thermos and added, “I'll have coffee for you.”

He considered, then handed over the binoculars, leaned the chair back, and closed his eyes without a word.

 

#####

 

Finch blinked wearily and found that his computer desk seemed to have been turned on its side. The monitors, keyboard, and mouse were all floating up above his head as though they had been glued to the dented wooden surface of the table.

He blinked again and realized that he had fallen asleep at the desk.

“Oww,” he muttered as he pushed himself up from the table to sit up straight. He adjusted his glasses and peered at each monitor. The main one contained many windows with information on Elizabeth Ruben's coworkers. The screen on the left contained the processes that were siphoning data from Miss Ruben's home network via the backdoor, and the one on the right—

 _Wait_!

He squinted at the largest terminal window on the left screen. Last night, the terminal had been copying data from Miss Ruben's desktop to the new RAID device. But instead of the expected progress bar or a summary of a successful transfer operation, he now saw:

**rsync error: unexplained error (code 255) at rsync.c(544) [generator=3.0.6]**

He frowned. If rsync—one of Finch's favorite file-transfer utilities—had quit midway through, he'd have to start the process all over again. While rsync handled partial transfers gracefully, it still had to scan the disk to see which files had changed since the last run, and that took anywhere from several minutes to an hour. Sighing, Finch retyped the rsync command and pressed enter.

**ssh_exchange_identification: read: Connection reset by peer**

**rsync: connection unexpectedly closed (0 bytes received so far) [receiver]**

**rsync error: unexplained error (code 255) at io.c(600) [receiver=3.0.6]**

“What?” he muttered. A nasty feeling began to bubble in the pit of his stomach. By instinct, he tried to log in to the backdoor and ping Elizabeth Ruben's desktop—but the backdoor would not respond.

Worried now, Finch pinged her router. It responded. Her Internet connection was still up, but the backdoor—which he had programmed to be _extremely_ aggressive towards connecting to the systems at HQ so long as it was attached to a usable network—was unresponsive.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh no, no, no...” Scrolling rapidly through the log files, he saw that the transfer had failed at about 3AM. So had every single other operation that he had tunneled through the backdoor.

It was as though it had been physically disconnected early in the morning.

He wasted no time dialing John Reese's number.

“Mr. Reese?” he said.

“Good morning, Harold—”

“John, where are you?

“94th street, tailing Elizabeth to her library. She left a little late. What's wrong, Finch?”

“I'm afraid we have a very grave problem on our hands. _Miss Ruben discovered our backdoor device last night._ ”

 

#####

 

Reese frowned, glancing towards the small SUV several cars ahead of him. “What do you mean, she discovered it?”

“Mr. Reese, I'm not sure how I can make myself any clearer. The backdoor is offline. She found it. Disconnected it.”

“So that's why she was so nervous last night. Finch, I hid that thing pretty well—”

“She must've spotted the network traffic somehow,” Finch said, talking very fast. He sounded as panicky as Reese had ever heard him.

“Can she trace it back to you?”

“Of course not, Mr. Reese, I took many precautions when programming the backdoor—but Miss Ruben knows she's being monitored now. If only I had bothered to masquerade the traffic as—!”

“Focus on worrying about Elizabeth now, Finch. We'll figure out how she found it later.”

Reese watched as the silver SUV abruptly changed lanes, cutting off a small red sports car before taking a right turn onto a side street. The SUV narrowly avoided a collision with a bicycle and sped off.

Startled, Reese said, “Finch, she's driving worse than Fusco. She just turned off 94th street. I don't think she's headed for the library. I'm following her now.”

“Don't let yourself be spotted, Mr. Reese. She may be trying to shake any pursers”

“You know, Harold, I _have_ tailed people before.”

After some minutes, it became clear that Elizabeth Ruben had no intention of driving to the library. Reese recognized the route Elizabeth was taking.

“Finch, she's headed to the Landis offices.”

“Why on Earth is she going there?” said Finch. “She works at the library today.”

Reese watched the SUV pull into a side entrance and drive erratically through parking lot, then vanish around the back of the squat building.

“She just pulled around to a loading dock. I'm going to get closer.”

“Mr. Reese, are you sure that's a good idea?”

“No, but we don't have much choice, Finch.”

Reese parked the car at the side of the building and got out. He edged along the wall until he reached the back of the building, then peaked around the corner. A narrow road ran between the building and a dirt embankment topped by a row of trees. The SUV was parked a ways down the road. Elizabeth was standing about thirty feet away, facing a blank metal door. She had her laptop bag over her shoulder and her cell phone in one hand. She tapped a message, then dropped the phone into her bag. Even at a distance, Reese could tell she was trembling. Her hair was half-combed and there were deep, puffy circles beneath her eyes. It looked like she'd been crying.

There was no one else around. An oily, overfilled dumpster lurked a few feet away; Reese hunched down and made his way towards it, watching Elizabeth through the gap between the dumpster and the wall.

“I see her, Finch,” he said softly. “She's waiting for someone.”

A minute later, the door swung open, and Bobby Tam stepped out.

“Elizabeth!” he said. “I got your message. What's wrong?”

In response, Elizabeth yanked the zipper open on her laptop case, reached inside, and pulled out a gun. She brought it up and pointed right between Bobby Tam's wide, terrified eyes.

“I thought you were my friend,” she snarled.

Reese sighed and reached for his own gun, hoping dearly that he wouldn't have to use it. “Finch?” he said. “We have a problem...”

 

#####


	8. Chapter 8

**July 2011**

 

Bobby Tam's eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head. He backed towards the door, but it had swung shut, and there was no handle on the exterior. His back met the solid metal surface. He stuttered and gasped—a natural reaction to being cornered and having a gun shoved in one's face.

“Elizabeth—just—w-what—“

“You _bastard_ ,” she said. “How could you do this to me?”

“I d-d-don't know what you're talking about,” Bobby said.

Elizabeth's hands shook around the gun. The barrel wavered wildly; if she fired now, there was good chance she would miss Bobby Tam entirely. Reese's gun, on the other hand, was as steady as steel. He aimed through the gap between the dumpster and the wall, pointing the gun at Elizabeth's left knee.

Finch's tinny voice was frantic. “Mr. Reese? What's going on?”

“Elizabeth has Bobby Tam at gunpoint, Finch,” Reese whispered. He clicked off the safety, but kept his finger away from the trigger.

“How long did you think it would take for me to find it?” Elizabeth said to Bobby.

“F-f-f-f-find what?”

“I had twenty-one _thousand_ messages in my intranet mailbox last night. Seventeen thousand—s _eventeen-fucking-thousand_ alert messages from my IDS. Another four thousand from the network monitor. Did you _think_ you could hide it?”

“Elizabeth, this h-h-has to be some sort of—misunderstanding.”

Holding the gun with one hand, Elizabeth reached into her bag again, felt around, and pulled out the backdoor. The gun wavered even more.

“Recognize this? I found it behind my _desk_.”

Reese exhaled. “Finch, she thinks Tam planted the backdoor.”

“Oh dear,” Finch said. “Oh, this is not good...”

Elizabeth held it out in front of her. “It's a Raspberry Pi, Tam. A fucking _Raspberry Pi_. You're always going on about your goddamn embedded computers—“

“It's not mine! Hey, It's not mine! Just b-b-because I use them all the time doesn't mean—”

“I took it apart. I spent _hours_ last night looking through the filesystem last night. It's _your_ code.”

“N-n-no!” Tam tried to flatten himself against the wall. “It's not!”

“Shut _up_!” Elizabeth cried, tightening her hand around the gun. Reese saw tears running down her face.

“Finch,” Reese whispered. “I'm so sorry. I may have to shoot Elizabeth.” His voice was rough. “I'll try to wound her.”

When Harold responded, his words were laden with regret. “Do what you must, Mr. Reese.”

Elizabeth shook the backdoor violently in Tam's face. “I went through every file. _Ever_ y _file._ All the Perl scripts—I _know_ your code, Tam. It's all— _concise_ and _efficient_ and—and _you're_ the only person in the entire goddamn company that doesn't put a _single goddamn comment anywhere in the source code_.”

“It's not mine!”

“What did you want? What were you looking for, huh? Why did you have to compromise every single one of my computers?”

“I—“

“What, did you think you'd have a little _fun_? Twist the knife?”

“Elizabeth, please—why would I—“

“ _I have to format every single one of my computers because of you_ ,” she wailed. “You broke into my network. You broke into _my apartment_. You screwed with my computers, you _violated_ my privacy, my sense of security—you—you—you—”

Reese rested his lightly finger on the trigger. Every fiber in his being was focused on Elizabeth Ruben. He was poised, under tension, like a bow string pulled back to the max; ready to make the split-second decision to fire and yet praying it wouldn't be necessary to disable the woman.

“Elizabeth,” Tam said, his voice trembling as though someone was shaking him by the shoulders. “Look, if I wanted to hack your network, I wouldn't need that thing! You gave me a key for your wireless network, remember? Three months ago.”

The sudden wave of confusion and regret that crossed Elizabeth's face told Reese that she didn't.

“You _know_ I wouldn't do something like this,” Tam said. His chest heaved. “Never.”

Elizabeth lowered the gun, just a little bit. Then a little bit further, and a little more, until the gun was pointed at the ground. It dangled from her fingers, swaying gently back and forth. She didn't say anything. Neither did Tam.

Elizabeth grimaced. Suddenly, she threw the backdoor as hard as she could. It hit the wall a few feet away from Tam and shattered into plastic shards and circuit boards. Tam winced and ducked away. Elizabeth looked like she was about to faint.

“ _Shit_ ,” she said shakily. She began to laugh, but it was not a pretty sound. She wiped her eyes with one hand. “I—I'm sorry, Bobby. I—I thought—if I scared you enough—“

Tam held up his hands. “Trust me, I'm scared, I'm scared!”

“It's not loaded.” Elizabeth said, looking down at the gun. “Didn't bring a clip. I don't think it even shoots anymore.”

Reese sighed in relief and took his finger from the trigger. He kept his weapon drawn, just in case.

Elizabeth wiped her eyes again and said, “I'm—I'm going h-home.” She backed towards her car on unstable legs.

Bobby Tam stared after her, frozen, mouth agape. He didn't find his voice until Elizabeth had her hand on the car door.

“Elizabeth, wait!” he said. “Tell me what happened. Do you need help?”

She shook her head. “I need sleep,” she said. Her voice broke. “And them I need to format every fucking one of my computers.”

She slammed the door shut, started the engine, and drove off, leaving Tam to stare after her.

Reese let out a long, deep breath. “It's alright, Finch,” he whispered, lowering the gun. “It's alright. She's leaving. The gun wasn't loaded.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” said Finch.

Reese slipped away before Bobby Tam could spot him.

 

#####

 

An hour later, Reese and Finch were sitting on a park bench beneath a massive maple tree across the street and a little ways down from the apartment complex. Bear was curled up at John's feet, panting happily in the shade. Reese gazed at Elizabeth's apartment, while Finch's attention was fixed on a silver laptop balanced on his lap. A wireless amplifier had been attached to the back of the laptop lid, connected to the laptop via a USB cable.

“Miss Ruben must have switched off her router entirely when she discovered the backdoor,” Finch said. “I detect no trace at all of her wireless network and I can no longer ping her IP address from the Internet. It's a sensible approach, really. When one's system is compromised, the best course of action is to yank all forms of connectivity as soon as possible to isolate the system, then deal with the forensics later.”

Reese nodded. A maple leaf fell from the tree and landed on Finch's keyboard. Irritated, Finch brushed it away, then closed the lid and placed his hands on top of it.

“Mr. Reese, I feel responsible for this entire debacle,” he said. “I should've realized that Miss Ruben would spot the unusual network traffic and find the extra device attached to her network.”

“It was a risk we had to take. We needed more information.”

“Yes, Mr. Reese, but now Miss Ruben knows that she is being watched, and we _still_ do not know what the threat against he is, or what harm she intends to cause. We also put her and another individual in harm's way.”

Reese looked sideways at Finch. “Can your Machine predict something like that?”

“You mean, could the Machine predict that, by us planting a device in the apartment of someone it already identified as a Number, said Number would go out and put herself or someone out a risk?”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Reese, the Machine cannot deal with circular logic such as this. Say the Machine had been alerting us to a threat against Bobby Tam by Elizabeth Ruben. It would have had to identify Elizabeth Ruben as the threat first. But the threat was _caused_ by _us_ planting the backdoor in Elizabeth Ruben's apartment. We planted the backdoor because we thought Elizabeth Ruben might be a threat. But we thought she might be a threat because the Machine warned us that she might be a threat. The Machine warned us because she was spurred into action by our backdoor, which we planted because—you see? It's a classic circular paradox, Mr. Reese. Utilized quite often in some science-fiction books.”

“I never liked science-fiction much,” Reese said.

“You should read some, Mr. Reese. There is certainly no shortage of science-fiction books in the Library. I could recommend some classics to you. _Gateway_ , perhaps, or _Foundation_ , or _Starship Troopers_. The last of which mentions plenty of high-tech firearms and explosives, enough to sate even your voracious appetite for weaponry.”

“I'll keep those in mind,” Reese said. He returned his attention to Elizabeth Ruben's apartment.

“My instinct says the threat is someone at Landis,” Reese said. “I'll put trackers on some of Elizabeth's coworkers' cars tomorrow morning.”

“You may as well do it now, Mr. Reese. I suspect Miss Ruben is either sleeping or rebuilding her network. Either way, she will be occupied for quite some time.” Finch frowned. “I regret that we have caused Miss Ruben such inconvenience. Rebuilding a network from scratch is an arduous task. I do hope she keeps good backups.”

“If we keep her from getting herself killed, I don't think she'll mind too much.” Reese stood. “I'll go plant a few trackers at Landis. Tam, Dodson, and Leroy, for starters.”

Finch nodded. Reese scratched Bear behind the ears and walked down the street towards his car.

 

#####

 

Harold Finch did not move from that park bench for a very long time.

He wanted to. After a half-hour seated on the hard wood slats, his hip, leg, and spine were all telling him to move, move, _move_. But he didn't. He stayed, and he watched Elizabeth Ruben's apartment.

Somewhere within the apartment walls, he knew, Elizabeth Ruben was either sleeping or, far more likely, unable to sleep and so dedicating herself to salvaging her network—the network that Finch had compromised and tainted in his efforts to find out as much as possible about the young programmer. Had the situation been reversed, Finch knew he would have responded much as had Miss Ruben (although perhaps minus the gun-waving). He would have worked ceaselessly on repairing the damage, driving himself to an exhaustion-induced stupor before allowing himself to rest, such as he had done when Root had compromised the Library systems. And then, once he woke up again, he would have obsessed on finding the hacker for a long, long time.

But Elizabeth Ruben would never find Harold Finch; of that, he was certain. He had inadvertently sent Miss Ruben on a useless wild-goose chase, arming her with nothing but an IP address halfway across the world.

Although the infiltration was justified—it was _always_ justified in his mind when he broke into someone else's network, so long as there was the possibility to save a life—he still felt regret.

He had moved too fast, used a nuclear-powered depleted-uranium magnetic-drive impulse hammer to drive a nail when a far simpler tool would have sufficed. If only he had taken more time to attempt to derive a key for the wireless network—if only he had used the backdoor as a passive network sniffer instead of infiltrating every computer—if only he had simply had Reese clone the drives and leave. But Finch had been impatient, and entirely too confident in his ability to crack into a mere _college intern's_ homenetwork.

He wondered now if he had resorted to such extreme measures just to prove that he could.

Because of Finch's haste, Elizabeth Ruben had very nearly been shot by John Reese that morning. Because of Finch's impatience, Elizabeth Ruben was forced to purge every device attached to her network: isolating each computer, backing it up, formatting its hard drives, setting up a new operating system, scanning the backup for signs of tampering (hopefully, she had an older set of backups to compare against), and then copying what files she felt were safe back to the formatted disk. It was a tedious, troublesome process, and when combined with the emotional shock of having one's entire network subverted by an unknown third party, the process was an upsetting one. Each computer formatted was a sickly reminder that an unknown entity had breached the network's security.

Finch knew that John Reese did not understand. To him, computers were mere machines; if one broke, or was compromised, he asked Finch for a replacement, much like an inexpensive cell phone. There was no attachment. But Harold knew just how emotionally devastating it was for one's own network to fall under the control of another hacker. It was a blow to the gut. The revelation that, for all the security measures taken, someone had found a way around them, wormed a way into each computer, and taken up residence at the lowest possible software level, making it impossible to trust the integrity of that computer ever again without a clean format—it destroyed one's sense of security. It was the same emotion one felt after thief broke into one's home, but worse, because there was no way of being sure what had been taken, because files were by their very nature easy to copy to another computer.

Harold Finch was a hacker, one of the finest, if not _the_ finest, in the world. He had brought some of the planet's most complicated networks to their metaphorical knees. He had wrestled DARPANET from the hands of the United States military with nothing but a computer and 300-baud dial-up modem, both of which he had built himself. He had created a machine that watched over billions of people, ever scanning for threats and dangers to society. Yes, he was a hacker, of that there was no doubt—but considered himself an _ethical_ hacker. A gray-hat, so to speak. The things he did were quite illegal, but they were for a good cause. They saved lives. They bettered the world.

 _But Root thought she was working for a good cause as well_ , he thought. He shuddered, did his best to put the thought out of his head.

Elizabeth Ruben tugged at his conscience. Gaining access to her network had been a necessary act, he told himself. It might save her life, or save someone else's life. But then he thought of the young programmer sitting in her bedroom, surrounded by the disassembled, gutted remnants of her network, forced to wipe clean her own computers, one at a time, to regain a feeble feeling of security. She'd probably replace the router too. Possibly the network switch. She would likely open up every computer and examine it with a critical eye, looking for any nefarious hardware that might have been added, such as a hardware keylogger. If she was as paranoid as Finch—unlikely—she would examine her keyboard as well and replace the mouse. Then scan for cameras.

Harold Finch hadn't thought about the effects of his exploits for some time, because until now, no one had detected them. The more he thought about Elizabeth Ruben, the more he realized that he had acted in haste, and the more he wished there was something he could've done to help repair the damage.

 _Saving her life would be a decent start_ , he thought.

Sighing, he opened the laptop again, borrowed a neighbor's open wireless network ( _for a good cause_ , he told himself), connected to HQ through an encrypted tunnel, and reviewed the files on Elizabeth Ruben's coworkers, searching for some thread, some scrap of information that would reveal who was the threat—or the target.

He was still working on it when John Reese returned an hour later.

 

#####


	9. Chapter 9

**September 2011**

 

I awoke one Sunday morning feeling the happiest I had ever been since John had rescued me. The horrible dreams _finally_ seemed to be receding enough to where I could occasionally manage a full nights' sleep so long as I had a nightlight to ward off the darkness—the power LEDs on my router served nicely. My shattered equilibrium was beginning to stabilize. Everything was going great; everything was going _right_. Last week, Landis had renewed my internship yet again and managed to squeeze in a few more dollars per hour on top of that, with some strong hinting that the company wanted to hire me full-time when I earned my Master's degree next semester. John had managed to slip away from Gotham City for a few hours yesterday for target practice and tea. The 94 th street library had received a generous donation from a private donor last Tuesday, and I'd been promised enough funds to retrofit the server room in the back. The elliptic-curve algorithm had just passed a stringent security audit by _two_ independent companies—one of which was IFT. _IFT!_ Even the weather was on my side; summer had managed to give one last hurrah, blessing New York with a week of clear, temperate skies even as the leaves began to turn gold and red on the trees.

I couldn't even begin to describe how fortunate I felt, and not just because of my sudden string of success. I felt fortunate to even be around to _wake up_. Every morning, I thanked every higher power I could imagine, thanked them for my second chance—a second _life_! As far as I was concerned, every day was something new and miraculous. Because if it hadn't been for John Reese, I never would've seen the sun rise again. I would've been a withered corpse in that cargo container. My body never would've been found.

When I was young, my Mama had told me that angels were real. Told me that they walked the Earth as do mortals, looking like everyday people, yet spreading miracles all the same. Now I knew what she had been talking about.

John Reese was one of those angels. I owed everything to him. I would've given him anything he'd asked for. If he'd wanted for my computers? I wouldn't have thought twice about giving them to him, every single one. If he'd asked for my books? I would've boxed them up myself. (I would've cried a little, but I would've done it still.) If he'd asked for my apartment, or my car? I would've handed him the keys. If he'd asked for my money, I would've given him a book of blank checks.

And if he'd asked for _me_? My body?

 _Well_. I could imagine far worse fates.

Yawning, I stretched like a cat. Stepped into a pair of shorts, pulled an old Steely-Dan T-shirt over my head. I padded out to the kitchen, starting my computers as I passed them on the way out of the room. Breakfast was two chocolate chip cookies and a cup of tea.

I had very little to do that morning, so I settled on an old favorite standby: listening to music. I pulled out my MP3 player. I had the Steely Dan T-shirt; I had The Royal Scam on my playlist. Green Earrings blared through my headphones as I danced barefoot around my apartment, singing along—badly. But that was all right, because no one else was around to hear it.

So I thought.

“Daa-da, da, daaaa—da-da!” I sang. “I remem-bah! The-look-in-your-eyes...”

I made my way from my bedroom to my living room, still singing.

“I don't mii-ind OHMYGOD _!_ ” I screeched and recoiled, backing away towards the bedroom and wondering frantically if I could manage to reach my gun, which I kept in the bottom desk drawer these days, before the man sitting on my couch could intercept me. I missed the doorway and my back slammed into the wall. Panic kicked in. “I've got a gun!” I shouted, edging towards the bedroom door. “Get the hell out!”

“Good morning to you too, Elizabeth,” said the man.

“... _John_!” I yelled, sounding like a little kid who's been picked on one too many times by her younger brother. I ripped the headphones off, taking a few strands of hair with them and interrupting a great guitar solo in the process. “The _hell_ are you doing in my apartment?”

“I knocked, but you didn't answer your door.”

“I almost _shot_ you.”

“It would've taken you at least ten seconds to get to the gun,” he said, shrugging.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, one hand clutching the headphones, the other clutching my thumping heart. “How did you even get in?”

“The front door.”

“It was _locked._ ”

“I picked the lock.”

“ _Why_?”

“You're kinda grumpy before you've had your morning tea,” John said, raising his eyebrows and quirking a lopsided grin. He motioned to the coffee table, where there sat a short, steaming paper cup.

“I've _had_ my tea,” I said. “I'm grumpy because _someone_ broke into my apartment.”

“You should invest in a stronger lock, Elizabeth. It's practically an invitation for a crook.”

By now I had calmed down enough to approach John without being overcome by the urge to strangle him. I sat next to him on the couch, placed the MP3 player and headphones on the coffee table, put my feet up, and crossed my arms.

“If you think you can get me into my good graces with a dinky cup of tea, think again,” I said, glowering at John. The smirk on his face was not helping matters at all. “If the neighbors called the police, I'm _not_ defending you. Seriously, John, what are you doing here?”

“Testing your door locks. I can get you better ones, if you'd like.”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm going to pretend you didn't just _break in_. Hi, John. What are you doing here this fine morning?”

“Well, Ellie,” he began. I twitched. Had he just called me _Ellie?_ That was what Mama called me. That was what my little brother had called me. That was what James Toban, the highschool bully, had called me once—before I had knocked him flat on his behind. (I'd gotten punched in the face by one of his cronies for that, but it had been worth it.) Hell, the nickname was almost as bad as _Lizzy_.

Either John didn't notice the fire spewing from my nostrils or he didn't care—either way, it was dangerous territory.

For him.

“Let's say I forgot the password to my computer,” John said.

“Did you really?”

“No. But let's say I did.”

“You should've picked a passphrase you can remember.”

“But I didn't. And I'm _very_ paranoid and I didn't write it down.”

“Are you really paranoid?”

“No. But let's say I am.”

I gave in and reached for the cup of tea. Sipped it. Damn him, it was just the way I liked it. I said, “You want me to break into someone's computer?”

“Pretty much. Can you do it?”

I scoffed. “Probably, if it doesn't have some weird encryption on it. Where is it?”

 

#####

 

I went into the bedroom, locked the door—not that it would've stopped John, but at least it sent a message—and changed into my favorite blue dress. Grabbed an external hard drive, one of my laptops, a drive enclosure, and a USB stick that had all of my favorite “recovery” tools loaded. Put it all in my laptop case. I hadn't yet stopped to think about the implications of what John was asking me to do. My mind was focused on the problem: password? What kind of password was it? If it was an operating system log-in password, I could get around that _easy_. If it was a BIOS password, I'd have to work harder. Disk encryption password? Probably not going to get very far unless it was a dictionary word. Drive password? Seriously unlikely.

Running my fingers through my hair, I stepped back out into the living room with the laptop case over my shoulder.

“Okay,” I said, “I'm ready.”

John had a little nondescript brown sedan parked in the lot. I was surprised. I had been expecting him to drive a black Mustang, or a Porsche, or a hovercraft, or maybe a catamaran. But no—he had a battered Oldsmobile.

We drove across town and stopped in front of this little yellow one-story house in suburbia. It hadn't been maintained very well. The paint was flecking off the walls and the roof was missing shingles. A bent television antenna missing half its tines clung to the ridge for dear life and a rattling air conditioner wheezed in one of the windows.

The houses on either side looked like model homes in comparison.

John unfolded himself from the car, stretched, and casually sauntered up the front walk, passing dead hedges and a demonic garden gnome missing most of its paint. I followed close behind. The front steps creaked and the screen door whined when John opened it.

“This place is kinda creepy,” I said.

“If you don't want to do this, just let me know,” said John. His hands moved down by the door knob. At first, I assumed he was unlocking the door with a key. You know, the way normal people did it? Then I looked closer and saw that he was _picking the lock_. Right there in front of me.

Five seconds later, the door swung open.

“We're breaking and entering, John?” I whispered. “ _Really_? In broad daylight?” I didn't know what I had been expecting. Presumably, he'd done the exact same thing to _my_ innocent front door.

“Don't worry, Ellie. I did the breaking. You're just entering.”

The house had a funky smell to it, like old beer and older plaster. Yellowing walls, brown carpet. Much of the furniture matched the floor. John led me to an old desktop computer sitting inert at one corner of the living room.

“The guy that lives here is at work,” John said, sprawling himself casually on the couch.

“And if he comes home early?” I said, very nervous. I had this overwhelming urge to whisper, lest I alert anyone that John and I were in the house.

“Then things might get a little complicated. But he won't. Don't worry, Ellie.”

Not reassured, I sat down at the rickety computer desk and powered on the desktop. It booted and displayed a password prompt. I sighed in relief—it was an operating system password. Reaching into my bag, I inserted the USB drive, rebooted the computer, and watched it go straight back to the login prompt.

“Ooops. I think I know what's wrong.”

I shut it down again, loaded the BIOS, and sure enough, the settings to allow the computer to boot from a USB drive were disabled. I enabled them and tried again. Thirty seconds later, the Linux operating system from the thumb drive was running, overriding the installed OS and giving me unfettered access to the hard drive—which was unencrypted. I opened the drive in the file manager and presented the list of files and directories to John.

“Ta-da,” I said, motioning to the screen. “Any idea what you're looking for?”

“Emails would be a good start.”

I ran a few well-chosen commands and found that the owner of the computer was using a popular mail client that auto-saved passwords as a convenience feature. It didn't take long to access his email accounts.

 _Oh my god,_ I thought when I saw some of the messages. _Not again._ _How does he_ know _when people are in trouble? How the hell does he know_?

John glanced at the emails and said, “Very good, Ellie.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You make a pretty good hacker.”

“This guy's being blackmailed,” I said, astounded.

“By his business partner, it looks like. This is exactly what I need.” He held up an external hard drive. “I'll take the rest to go,” he said blithely.

It took fifteen minutes to copy the drive. Fifteen long, nerve-wracking minutes in a house that liked to creak and groan as the sun warmed its exterior. I twitched and jumped at every sound.

“Relax, Ellie,” John said as the files transferred.

“This is the first time I've done anything more illegal than torrenting a few seasons of Star Quest,” I mumbled.

“Not to mention punching a guy in the face.”

“Hey, he _deserved_ it. He wanted to replace _my_ key exchange code with something it looked like an eight-year-old had written. His code was buggy!”

“If it makes you feel better, you didn't see me picking the lock.”

“But I—“

“No, you didn't.” John raised his eyebrows, shrugged. “Well, you did, but if the cops come, you can tell them you didn't.”

My heart rate accelerated. “Are they going to come?”

“I don't think so,” John said, still perfectly at ease. Sitting there on that damn couch wearing his damn suit like he didn't have a single damn care in the world.

The urge to strangle him was coming back.

After two eternities and an eon, the drive finished copying. I yanked it and said, “Want me to do anything else? Can we leave now? Please?”

“We're leaving now. Good job, Ellie.”

I was too nervous to snark about how much I despised the nickname _Ellie_.

I shut down the computer in record time, collected my flash drive, and followed John out the front door, sticking to his side like sap. We descended the front steps. Walked along the path. Down the sidewalk. The car was just feet away.

And right when I was thinking we'd gotten away with it, someone behind us said, “Excuse me! Who are you?”

Dread trickled down my spine. We turned. An older woman, decked in pink sweat pants and a baggy sweater, stood a few feet away, arms crossed.

My heart pounded into overdrive, but before I could say anything, John casually pulled something out of his suit pocket.

“Detective Stills, ma'am,” he said, showing the woman a police badge—a goddamn _badge—_ and then motioning to me. “My—consultant, Ellie Harper. We're investigating suspicious activity reported in this neighborhood.”

I was too shocked to speak.

“Oh! I'm sorry, Detective.” The woman relaxed her arms. “We've just had so many robberies in the past few weeks...I'm glad someone's finally taking us seriously.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said John.

“Can you tell me anything about the investigation?”

“We're—investigating a person of interest,” John said. “I can't say much more.”

“Well, that's something at least. More than I got out of the other officer. Have a good day, Detectives.”

She walked off, and we climbed into the car.

“ _'Detective Stills'?_ ” I hissed. I was trembling. “The hell, John?”

“That's _Detective_ John to you, Ellie.”

“You—you—!” I didn't have the words to described how simultaneously pissed-off and relieved I was. I settled for punching John none too gently in the arm. He didn't even seem to notice—he just made that little smile.

“Me, me,” John said. He put the car in gear and drove us out of that neighborhood.

 

#####

 

Reese was sitting in a chair at Finch's computer desk in the library; his feet were up on the desk and positioned perilously close to the keyboard. He had his eyes closed, but he was not asleep; he was listening.

He heard uneven, shuffling footsteps, which soon halted.

“Sleeping on the job, Mr. Reese?” said Harold Finch, who had limped near the desk.

Reese opened his eyes and looked at his employer. “Of course not, Harold.”

“Good, I should hope not. We still have Arnold Grendel's case to solve.” Finch motioned Reese out of his chair. Reese didn't move.

“Actually, Harold, I handled Grendel while you were in your 'regretfully unavoidable' business meetings this morning.”

Finch blinked. “You—prevented him from causing any harm?”

“We had it backwards. His business partner was extorting him. He was going to kill Grendel when he ran out of money, and then take over the company.”

“And how did you find this out, Mr. Reese?”

“I took Elizabeth to his house and she hacked Grendel's computer. The partner told me the rest once I convinced him to talk.”

Finch's eyebrows rose towards the ceiling.

“Excuse me, Mr. Reese. Let me repeat what you said, just to make sure I heard you correctly. You and Elizabeth Ruben broke into Mr. Grendel's home—“

“I did the breaking-in part. Elizabeth was just following.”

“—and Miss Ruben hacked into his computer?”

“Yeah. She did pretty good, too.” Reese finally took his feet off the desk and stood, offering the chair to his boss. Finch was not mollified by the gesture.

“Mr. Reese, is there something wrong with the updated infiltration flash drive that I provided you several weeks ago?”

“Oh. That.” He grinned. “I must've left it here at the library. Elizabeth's apartment was nearer.”

“You took a naive and traumatized young computer scientist, who is willing to do just about _anything_ you request, to the home of a suspected criminal.”

“It sounds horrible when you say it like that, Harold.”

“You _broke into_ his home and had Elizabeth Ruben circumvent the security measures on his computer.”

“Just helping someone along their descent into deviant behavior, Harold.”

“Mr. Reese, Elizabeth Ruben has strong potential as a computer programmer and security researcher. Encouraging delinquency is not in any way conducive to her future!”

“It was just this once, Harold.”

Finch sighed and sat down, pulling his chair closer to the keyboard. “Mr. Reese,” he mumbled, “it's never 'just once' with you.”

“Cheer up, Harold. You can come along next time instead of Elizabeth...I'll even buy you tea.”

 

#####

 

In just five months, the amount of raw data that the Machine had processed and stored regarding Elizabeth Ruben had nearly doubled in size, ballooning to three hundred and ninety seven terabytes. Due to the efforts of its father, the Machine now had complete access to Elizabeth Ruben's work at Landis and the files on her home computers, even with the removal of the backdoor device that the primary asset had planted there.

(Elizabeth Ruben used so little of the processing power available to the devices in her bedroom; the Machine had offloaded some of its local data processing there, taking advantage of the hefty gigabit network that linked the computers to each other and the fifty megabit connection linking them to the outside world. The Machine hoped that she wouldn't mind the use of her equipment or the subversion of her intrusion detection system.)

The Machine quickly focused its attention on the elliptic-curve key exchange algorithm Elizabeth Ruben had finished shortly after her rescue by the primary asset. The Machine spent a week running stringent tests on the algorithm, and once it was satisfied that the encryption was mathematically correct, it integrated the algorithm into its own systems, supplementing the algorithms provided by its father and making its own adjustments and optimizations. It estimated a 7.8% savings in CPU time per encrypted connection key exchange when compared against the older algorithm.

Impressed—as much as it could be impressed—the Machine dedicated a tiny fraction of its attention to Elizabeth Ruben...

 

#####


	10. Chapter 10

**September 2011**

 

It was common knowledge at the Landis offices that I fell into a trance-like fugue whenever I tackled a particularly intriguing programming project. No matter if it was implementing a unique algorithm, upgrading an old subroutine, or hunting down a bug with extreme prejudice, I often lost all track of time and withdrew from the outside world, focused myself entirely on solving the issue at hand. I paid no attention to the going-ons around me. By now, most of my coworkers had learned that they needed to tap me on the shoulder or wave a hand in front of my face to get my attention; otherwise I would inadvertently ignore them for who-knew-how-long. (The record: the shy receptionist had once stood next to my chair for fifteen minutes waiting for me to notice him.)

This made it _really_ easy to sneak up on me.

It was afternoon and I was in full bug-squashing mode. I had already resolved one issue ticket since my lunch break—a simple two-line fix to correct a careless mistake made by someone else in the embedded web server code, a problem that took much longer to find than to fix—and I so very nearly had a patch ready for the second issue.

I yawned, stretched, turned in my chair, and jumped ever so slightly when I noticed that someone was leaning on my desk. Someone who had _not_ been there the last time I had checked. Someone who was wearing a fine black suit, a crisp, white shirt that was unbuttoned at the top, and a charismatic little smirk.

The smile just refused to stay off my face.

“John,” I said, keeping my voice low so as not to attract attention from the rest of the office. Fortunately, everyone was bustling today. “How did you get back here?”

“I...breached the space-time continuum,” he said in that soft, husky voice of his. I found it difficult to keep the snort of laughter from escaping.

“Okay, Doctor. How long have you been sitting there? I kinda don't notice things when I'm working.”

“Not too long,” he said, setting a steaming paper cup on my desk, respectfully far away from the keyboard. I glared at it. Tried to convince myself that I wasn't craving the taste of that spicy black tea, sweetened just a touch by a dab of honey. I held out about five seconds before I reached out for the cup, making a dramatic, exasperated sigh.

“What'cha want me to hack this time?” I said.

Reese raised his eyebrows. “It's just tea, Elizabeth. I buy you tea all the time. What makes you think I want you to hack something today?”

“You just called me 'Elizabeth' instead of 'Ellie' to put me in a better mood. Where is the computer? Are we going to break into someone's house again?”

“Only if you're comfortable doing that.”

“It's fine, I just wanted to know ahead of time.”

“Ellie—” John said.

I narrowed my eyes, but said nothing.

“—burglary is illegal. So is hacking. Now, I'm fine with being an outlaw, but you've got a promising, well-paying, entirely legal career ahead of you.”

“Only thanks to you,” I said. “John, whatever you need, I'll do it. I want to help. I don't care what happens to me.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

“I wouldn't _be here_ if it wasn't for you. I'm living on time I shouldn't even have.” I shrugged. “I want to use it to help people.” Motioning to the computer monitor, I said, “This firmware can't help someone chained up and left to die. Or someone who's being blackmailed by their business partner over a sex tape.”

“What about a future project? Something that you might program five, ten, fifteen years down the line?”

I chuckled. “Like what? What could I possibly make that would affect peoples' lives the way you do?”

“Oh, I could think of a few things,” John said. He had this sort of sneaky little grin on his face, like he knew something I didn't.

“What, some sort of program that _saves_ peoples' lives? Maybe I'll make a way to upload our brains into computers, so we can live forever. Or, maybe I'll make a program like the precogs from _Minority Report_ and predict the future so we can stop crime before it happens.” I smiled wryly and shook my head. “That's not the kind of thing I can do, John. I'm a good programmer, but I'm not some sort of super hacker.”

John stayed silent, eyebrows raised. I took a long, leisurely sip of my tea.

“You need to know what's at stake,” he said finally. “You could be throwing away your entire career. You could be sent to prison. The punishment for hacking is tough—if you're caught.”

“I know,” I said. “I read about Aaron Swartz and MIT.” With a few keystrokes, I saved my work, closed my open windows, and logged out of my workstation. Leaning back in my chair, I crossed my arms. “John, look. My life should've ended five months ago. I don't care what happens to me now. And I want to help you. Okay?”

“Only if you swear to me that you'll tell me if I ask you to do something that makes you uncomfortable.”

“Fine. Deal. I swear.” I adjusted the straps on one of my sandals and stood up. “Where's the computer, Q?”

 

#####

 

 

Turns out it was in an upscale apartment on the nineteenth floor of a downtown high-rise. The hallway outside was well-lit and quiet. John glanced left and right, acting all casual, as he picked the lock. It took him eight seconds.

“You make it look so easy,” I whispered as he pushed the door open. He glanced around inside, then motioned me in, closing the door behind me.

“I could teach you, if you'd like,” he said.

“And here you were all concerned about me turning into a criminal.”

“Nothing wrong with _knowing_ how to pick a lock, Ellie. The skill comes in useful on occasion for legitimate purposes.”

A hazy memory flashed before my eyes: John leaning over my overheated, naked body. His nimble fingers working a paperclip into the locks on the handcuffs that bound my numb wrists to the metal bar above my head.

“Yeah.” I mumbled. “Yeah, it does.”

It was a cramped, sparse little apartment. Hardly anything on the walls. White carpet. White leather couch. Tiny coffee table. A few tall, willowy fake plants in the corners. One whole wall of the living room was given up to windows, letting the afternoon sunlight flood in.

John directed me to the bedroom, which was decorated much the same way. The computer in question was at a large desk near the window. It was a squat desktop tower, all rounded edges and shiny black metal. The company logo lit up in neon red and blue when I turned it on. It booted from my flash drive without complaint, but when I accessed the hard drive, I could tell right away that I wasn't going to be able to do much.

“I think this guy has an encrypted partition on his hard drive,” I said, disappointed.

“She's a girl,” John said lightly. He was sitting on the floor beside me. “With good security habits, its seems. Can you decrypt it?”

“I don't know. Lemme see what kind of encryption it is first.”

I had tools on my flash drive that could brute-force some types of drive encryption passphrases given enough time, plus I had several gigabytes worth of wordlists to help the process along. But certain encryption techniques used hash stretching and other tricks to make each passphrase computationally expensive to test—a LUKS partition, for example, by default hashed the input passphrase repeatedly for around a second before it tried using the output to decrypt the partition. At that rate, the universe would end before I found the passphrase, even if I ran the operation in parallel on all of my home computers.

“It's a TrueCrypt partition,” I said, feeling my shoulders hunch. “I'll try some common passwords, but I don't think I can get in.” I sighed. “Sorry, John.”

“Just do your best,” he said calmly. “If it doesn't work, we'll just clone it to my external hard drive. I know a guy who might be able crack it.”

“What, he work for the NSA or something?”

“We'll go with 'something',” John said. “He's good with computers.”

For a little while, there was silence in the apartment but for the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard, the chattering of the hard drive, the whir of the desktop cooling fan. So far, none of the passphrases the tool had tried had succeeded in accessing the drive. I explored the unencrypted portions of the hard drive while I waited, but there was very little of interest to be found.

When the cracking application had gone through its tiny “common password” wordlist with no success, I knew that there was little point in continuing. So, I started the drive cloning and leaned back in the chair to watch the progress bar crawl across the screen. I sighed. Shuffled my sandals on the carpet. Spun the chair lazily from side to side. There was nothing more to do until the clone program finished.

After a few minutes of silence, I said, “Hey, John?”

“Yes, Ellie?”

“Why do you do it?”

John looked at me. “Why do I do what?”

“Save people. What made you decide to become Batman?”

His mouth quirked. “My parents were murdered right in front of me in an alleyway.”

I rolled my eyes. “Seriously?”

“No.” He looked away.

“All right, nevermind.”

I turned my attention back to the progress bar, which had inched about halfway across the screen. For a little while, there was quiet.

“Someone found me,” John said. His eyes, focused on the opposite wall of the room, had a vacant, far-away look to them.

“Huh?”

“I was in a bad way,” he said, his voice raspy. “Lost. On the street. Probably would've been dead in another few days, maybe a few weeks.” He nodded his head sadly. “Someone rescued me. He pulled me back. Gave me a purpose.”

“Sounds like we're kinda alike,” I said.

“Not really,” John said, smiling, but he left it at that.

It took another ten minutes to copy the partitions to John's external hard drive. When I was done, I shut down the computer and put my thumb drive back in my bag. We left the apartment, walked to the lift, and stepped inside.

While we waited for the lift to reach the ground floor, I said, “Sorry I couldn't get into the partition.”

“It's alright, Ellie. Most of the time, all I can do is clone the drive.”

“And take it back to your NSA guy?”

“Pretty much.”

“I hope you buy _him_ tea, too.”

John chuckled. “He does enjoy his tea...”

 

#####

 

The next time John and I broke into someone's place, the plan went...sideways.

It started out fine. The apartment was a funky old tenement in Hell's Kitchen; a tiny one-room dwelling. It stank of cigarette smoke and it looked like someone else had broken in already and turned the place on its ear. The walls were painted dark green and whenever I stepped on the shaggy brown carpet it released little puffs of dust. There were dirty dishes scattered everywhere.

“Nice place,” I said to John.

The computer keyboard was sticky with food and spilled drinks and goodness-knew-what-else, and it was surrounded by empty beer bottles. The desktop tower on the floor was covered in dust and cigarette ash, and when I turned it on, it emitted a loud grinding noise—I recognized the sound as the death knell of a failing cooling fan. I wondered how many inches of dust had collected inside the case. Someone needed to take this computer out to the pasture and shoot it. It would've been a mercy killing.

I said as much, but I dutifully inserted the flash drive and booted the computer. It took five minutes to load an operating system that should've been up and running in thirty seconds. Typing as little as possible, I began to explore the hard drive.

That's when the lock clicked.

“Stay back,” John hissed, just as the door swung open. I had a brief glimpse of a man at least six feet tall and entirely _too_ muscled, and then the intruder was bellowing and running at John, who had placed himself between me and the door.

John deflected the first few blows and managed to land a solid one on the guy's ribs, forcing the guy backwards, but Mr. Muscular Bald Wife-beater wasn't about to keel over and beg for mercy. No, he punched John in the face, or tried to. John deflected it, but the blow still glanced off his cheek.

I stood there frozen and watched them fight, my mouth agape. I wanted to help John, but didn't know what to do.

The two men separated. The intruder snarled and ran at John again. This time, John was ready, and for a few seconds it looked like he was kicking the intruder's ass.

And then the other guy showed up—a near clone of the first man, but with a little more hair and a little more patience. He started for John first, but then he noticed lil' ol' me in the corner and began stalking my way.

 _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit_ , I thought, like a looping record at double speed. Heart pounding, I did the only thing that I could think of—I grabbed one of the beer bottles from the desk and threw it.

It missed the guy, hit John's back, and bounced off. The guy coming towards me grinned.

_Double oh shit!_

I grabbed another bottle, aimed more carefully. This one hit the guy on the head with a satisfyingly solid _thunk_.

“Oww! Fucking _bitch!_ ”

I picked up another bottle, held it high, and raised my eyebrows, but apparently a scrawny young woman wearing a dress and holding up an empty beer bottle isn't very threatening, even if she's got her eyebrows raised. The man lunged, and the bottle missed. My frantic fingers closed around another bottle. The man was almost on me, his hands outstretched, reaching for my neck. I could _smell_ his foul breath. I struggled to swing the bottle.

His fingers closed around my throat, but before they could squeeze, the man suddenly jerked and fell forward, plowing right into the desk and scattering beer bottles everywhere. John stood where the man had been a moment before. He was breathing hard. His hair was all tousled and his shirt was wrinkled. A shiner was forming just above his left eye.

Behind him, the first guy was lying face-down on the floor.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Y—yeah. I'm fine.” My heart was still thumping away like a jackhammer.

“See if you can find a roll of tape. And close the door.”

I started pulling open desk drawers. There was a roll of packing tape in the second one. I tossed it to John, who began to restrain the two men.

By the time one of them woke up, they were thoroughly immobilized and gagged. John stood over them, waited for them both to return to consciousness, and then pulled out his gun. I gulped. Surely he wasn't going to...?

“Which one of you is Anthony Vaughn?” The men glanced at each other. When neither of them responded, John pointed the gun at the one on the left—the one that had entered first—and said, casually, “It's you, isn't it?”

The man's eyes flew wide and he shook his head frantically, yelling into the crude gag.

“Or maybe it's you,” John said, swinging the gun to point at the other man, who tried to squirm away. John stopped that by planting his foot on the man's chest. “Yes, it's you. I recognize you better when you're not trying to assault my partner. You should be thankful she doesn't have a mark on her, else you'd be in a world of hurt right now. Those court-ordered anger management courses didn't do you much good, did they?”

John's gaze was withering.

“The truth is, _Anthony_ , I don't really care who you are. What I care about is that you never, ever approach Catherine Mendoza or her family again. You will never contact her again. In fact, you will pack your things tonight and leave. Both of you. You will move very, very far away and never, ever come back. Do you understand?”

The man nodded quickly yes, but John wasn't done yet. He pulled the slide back on his gun and aimed the barrel right between Anthony's eyes.

I savored the look of fear on his face, but at the same time, I really hope this was just a scare tactic and not a prelude to murder.

“Just to make sure it gets through that thick head of yours, Anthony: you will not contact Catherine Mendoza. Ever. Do you know what will happen if you do?”

John clicked off the safety, and the man's muffled pleas doubled in intensity.

“If you do,” John whispered, “if you even so _think_ about calling her again, I will find you. I will hunt you down and kill you like the animal you are. The same goes for your pal here.” John glanced over at the other man, who cringed when the barrel swung his way.

“Do you both understand?”

They nodded so fast, they probably were giving themselves whiplash.

“I'll be back tomorrow,” John said, clicking the safety on his gun and lowering it. “Just to make sure you don't need any help _...packing_. _”_

Turning to me, he said, “I think it's time we left, Ellie.”

I didn't need to be told twice. I grabbed my flash drive and we left the apartment, leaving the two bound men to struggle.

My voice didn't return until we were in the car, headed safely out of the neighborhood.

“Oh my god,” I said.

“He didn't hurt you, did he?” John glanced at my neck. “Because if he did, I'll turn this car around and—”

“No, no, I'm fine,” I said. “I'm just—It's been awhile since I've been in a fight.”

“You need to work on your aim a little.”

“Sorry about that,” I mumbled.

“No worries. It was quick thinking. Most people freeze up when they see a two hundred and fifty pound guy running at them. It was better than standing still and letting him come at you.”

“Thanks,” I said, not sure what else to say.

“But, if we're going to keep doing this, Ellie, I need to teach you some self-defense moves. Assuming you still want—”

“ _Yes_ , I still want to help,” I said, before John could try talking me out of our hacking adventures again. “I'd love to learn.”

“Good,” John said, smirking. “I know a place we can practice this weekend if I don't have a case. If you're not busy, of course...”

“Count me in,” I said.

 

#####


	11. Chapter 11

**July 2011**

 

When Elizabeth Ruben showed up for work at Landis Technologies the next day, she gave no sign that anything was out of the ordinary. She arrived five minutes early, parked her car, rode the lift up to the twelfth floor, and settled at her desk. Harold Finch, already firmly ensconced at his cubical, watched her log in to her workstation.

He _still_ did not know the nature of the threat against or soon to be caused by Elizabeth Ruben, even after wading through more of the files he had copied from her home network before the transfer had been forcibly aborted. The most he could do was keep watch over her while Reese tailed her coworkers around like a silent second shadow.

Frowning, Finch logged in to his own workstation and reviewed his assigned project—more HTML nonsense. Fortuitous, in a way. Although it was mind-numbingly boring, it was a task that Finch could finish quickly, allowing him to keep Elizabeth Ruben under surveillance for the rest of the day.

It took him twenty-six minutes to complete the entire project, but he didn't commit it to the source code repository—that would've attracted too much attention and possibly landed him with even more busywork. Instead, he focused on deciphering Elizabeth Ruben's notes on elliptic-curve cryptography. He had very nearly completed a working implementation—a rather elegant one, if he did say so himself—but there were significant pieces missing. Miss Ruben's notes appeared to be incomplete. Finch wondered if she had not filled in the blanks yet, or if they existed only in her head.

The morning marched along at a steady pace. Noon came, went. Elizabeth Ruben ate lunch at her desk again and went right back to programming.

 _Burying herself in work, perhaps_ , thought Finch. _It's what I would do_.

He kept in contact with Reese throughout the morning via cell phone.

“Where are you, Mr. Reese?” he asked.

“Following Bobby around.”

“How has Mr. Tam reacted to Miss Ruben's unexpected outburst yesterday afternoon?”

“You must be getting more comfortable with guns if you consider that an 'outburst', Harold.” Reese paused, and said, “I'm watching him through the server room windows. He seems alright. Busy. He's replacing some sort of equipment in the racks.”

“Describe the equipment.”

“They're about...eighteen inches wide. Two inches tall, a few feet long. Metal. They have an IFT logo on the front. Four little doors, each about four inches by one. Power cord. A network cable.”

“A small rack server.”

“He's got stacks of them on a cart. Maybe ten of them. I think he'll be busy awhile, Finch.”

“Most likely, Mr. Reese. Perhaps you should follow Dodson or Leroy instead.”

“I can't keep track of all our suspects at once.”

“Perhaps we should bring in Shaw on this one, Mr. Reese.”

“You know how much she enjoys surveillance, Harold.”

“We could also bring in Leon.”

There was a long pause.

“We'll make do.” Reese hung up.

At 1:21PM, Finch's phone vibrated with an application alert. He pulled it out of his pocket. Checked the screen. His eyes widened.

There were three dots superimposed on a map—one for each of the GPS trackers that Reese had planted on the cars belonging to Dodson, Leroy, and Tam. Two of the dots were stationary—but one of them was on the move.

Wasting no time, he dialed Reese's number.

“Mr. Reese? Isaac Leroy's car just left the parking lot.”

“Damnit, I was following Dodson,” Reese said. “I'm on him, headed for the car. You stay on Elizabeth, Finch.”

“Of course, Mr. Reese.”

Four cubicles away, Elizabeth Ruben continued to type, oblivious to the drama unfolding around her.

 

#####

 

By the time Reese made it to his car, Isaac Leroy had at least a three minutes' head start. Reese steadily closed the gap until he could see Leroy's little black Volkswagen ahead, then held that distance, taking care not to follow too closely. The green dot marking Isaac Leroy's car pulsed steadily along the map on Reese's phone, guiding him along a familiar route.

“Finch?” he said. “Leroy is headed for Elizabeth's apartment. I think we found the guy who hired the thief.”

“What do you plan, Mr. Reese?”

“The usual, Harold. Following him. Getting information from him. Discouraging him.”

He pulled into the parking lot just in time to see Leroy open the door to Elizabeth's apartment and slip inside. Either he had picked the lock or he had a key. Like a ghost, Reese made his way up the front walk. He put his ear to the front door—no noise. It was unlocked. Pushing the door open with care, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

The bedroom light was on, the door ajar. Reese pulled out his gun and approach the door. Peeked inside.

There were computer parts everywhere. Several of the desktop computers were scattered around the floor, their side panels missing, their ribbon cables and power connectors dangling like guts. The wireless router lay disconnected on the bookshelf. A staggering amount of cords and cables spilled off the bed. All Elizabeth's doing, Reese guessed. Leroy had ignored the mess. He had gone straight for the desk and, like the thief before him, was making a grab for the notes.

Reese held up the gun, pushed the door wide, and said, “Hello, Isaac.”

He spun around, mouth wide. One hand gripped a sheaf of notes.

“Hey, this isn't what it looks like,” he said, holding up his other hand. “I swear, it isn't.”

“Really?” Reese said, stepping carefully around a disassembled computer tower. “Because, to me, it looks like you're stealing the hard work of a colleague.”

He gulped. “I d-don't have a choice, dude,” he said.

“Yes, you do,” Reese said softly. “You can put down those notes. And then you can apologize to Elizabeth Ruben for making her life miserable for the past few days.”

Leroy shook his head and said, frantic, “You don't understand. I can't. I _can't_. I'm being blackmailed. She'll _bury_ me.”

“Wait,” Reese said. “'She'?”

 

#####

 

Not five minutes after Reese had left to chase down Isaac Leroy, Elizabeth Ruben locked her workstation, stretched luxuriously, and stood.

 _Oh no,_ Finch thought as he logged out of his own workstation. _You're not slipping away this time, Miss Ruben!_ He used his desk as leverage to stand and then followed Elizabeth Ruben as she made her way across the office, meandering through the maze of low cubicles. She walked fast. Finch limped along as best as his leg would allow, but when he realized just where Elizabeth Ruben was headed, he stopped as though he had collided with a wall.

Elizabeth Ruben disappeared through a door marked with a very familiar symbol: _womens' restroom._

 _False alarm,_ Finch thought. But he did not go back to his desk; instead, he loitered near the door. (Somehow, Finch doubted that even John Reese would've been bold enough to go in there.)

Finch waited for Miss Ruben to finish her...business.

And waited.

An older ginger-haired woman smiled at him and pushed open the door. Finch tried to glance through the gap before the door swung shut, but he couldn't see Elizabeth Ruben anywhere.

He waited some more.

 

#####

 

“Look, I was young and dumb, okay?” Leroy said. He waved the notes around, as if he hoped he could use them to fly away by swinging his arms fast enough. “It was just one night. But—look, she's told me that if I didn't steal the notes, she'd go to the cops. And then I'd go to _jail_. It was her idea to hire somebody else to steal the notes. She made _me_ spend the money to pay the guy. And when that guy didn't come back, she said _I_ had to do it, or else. It's all her, man!”

“Who are you talking about, Leroy?”

“I can't—if she finds out I told you—she'll—”

“Isaac,” Reese said, “I have a gun. And I'm pointing it at you.” He clicked off the safety. “Tell me, Isaac. Who. Is. She?”

Isaac Leroy gulped and said, “Tara Dodson.”

 

#####

 

Reese's voice buzzed in Finch's ear.

“Finch? Isaac Leroy is just the fall guy. Dodson hired him. She's the one behind all this. Where's Elizabeth?”

“In the restroom, Mr. Reese,” said Finch. “I'm waiting for her to come back out.”

“I'll be back at Landis in ten minutes. Keep Elizabeth safe. Don't let Dodson anywhere near her.”

Minutes passed, and Elizabeth still had not returned. Finch began to worry. His worry turned to confusion when a familiar ginger-haired woman walked past him from the direction of the lifts.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” he said.

“Yes?” She turned around.

“I just saw you go in there.” Finch pointed to the bathroom door.

The woman chuckled. “Ah, everyone gets fooled by that. There's two doors, see. One of them goes out right next to the lifts.”

“Oh,” Finch said, fighting to keep the horror from showing on his face. “W-well. My friend Elizabeth went in there a few minutes ago. Could you...would you mind seeing if she's still...?”

The woman rolled her eyes but pushed the bathroom door open. It swung shut behind her. A few seconds later, she emerged again.

“Sorry. She's not in there. She must've gone out the other door.”

“Ah. Thank you for checking.”

The woman nodded and walked away. As soon as she was out of earshot, Finch tapped his earpiece.

“Mr. Reese, you need to hurry. I'm afraid I've lost Miss Ruben.”

 

#####

 

“Really, Tara?” I said. “I can't believe you parked in the back.”

“What's wrong with that? It's closer to the lifts. We won't have to push the cart as far.”

“Yeah, but we have to go through the crypts.” I looked around and saw a maze of unpainted cement walls, florescent light fixtures, silver electrical conduits, and insulated water pipes. Shuddered. It was the fastest way to the loading dock, but that didn't mean that it wasn't creepy. “Where did you get these servers, anyway?”

“Oh, a friend got them for me, real cheap. Just think how happy Tam will be to have some new equipment for the server room.”

 _And maybe it'll make up a bit for me waving a gun in his face_ , I thought.

There was an exit door up ahead—ironically, it was the same door through which Bobby Tam had walked twenty-four hours ago, just before I had pulled my gun on him. Tara pushed the door open and motioned me through. I looked around and didn't see Tara's car anywhere. Just an unfamiliar white van.

“Okay,” I said, “what's the big— _aaah!”_

The world went white. Someone had poked a red-hot cattle prod into my back. My legs went out from under me and the concrete rushed up to meet my face. I heard a rapid tick-tick-ticking noise but couldn't place the sound at first.

I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe.

 _Stun gun_ , I realized, gasping in pain. My body twitched and spasmed.

“T-T-Tara,” I wheezed. I struggled to get my arms under me to push myself off the hot concrete, but none of my limbs would respond. “What...what are you...”

“Shhh,” she said. I felt her hand on my back. “Just hold still.”

A bee stung me on the side of my neck, releasing its icy poison into my veins. Blackness encroached at the edge of my vision, creeping inward.

“N-n-no...” I felt so weak, so very weak...

The world shrank to a pinpoint as the drugs spread their evil magic throughout my body, dragging me down into the drowning darkness.

 

#####


	12. Chapter 12

**July 2011**

 

#####

 

Once he had returned to the Library, it hadn't taken Finch long at all to crack into the security cameras at Landis. Several minutes after establishing contact with the digital CCTV system, he had identified Tara Dodson leading Elizabeth Ruben through a service corridor towards the loading docks at the back of the building.

But the rooftop camera covering the rear exterior of the building had been disconnected early that morning.

“Damnit,” said Reese.

Finch said, “She must have taken another vehicle; her GPS tracker hasn't moved. I'll check the parking lot camera footage,” Finch raised four more windows on top of the others. He played back the video at double speed, focusing on cars passing in and out of the parking lot. The seconds ticked by on the timestamp in the lower-right hand corner of each feed.

“Wait.” Reese tapped the spacebar to pause the videos. He pointed at a white van leaving the parking lot. “Fandango Transportation. Isn't that the name of the company Dodson's parents own?”

“This can't be a coincidence, Mr. Reese.”

“Can you get a license plate?”

“I'll try. I'll also see if the company runs a GPS system I can hack. We may be able to track her that way, if we're lucky.”

“I hope so. We need to know where she's taking Elizabeth.”

Finch's fingers flew over the keyboard like a pianist playing at top speed.

“None of these cameras have sufficient resolution for a license plate,” he said, “but one of the surrounding businesses may have a better surveillance system. I'll have to hack them one at a time.”

“I'll call Carter, have her check the traffic cameras near there. And get me an address for Fandango Transportation. I think it's time Detective Stills paid them a visit.”

 

#####

 

For an eternity, I floated in a dark, dark void. Fragmented memories and scattered thoughts darted in and out of the nothingness like fireflies in the night; there one moment, gone the next. Disjointed, nonsensical thoughts: why didn't robins swim? How come Mama had bought me black roller skates instead of blue ones? Batman should be bulletproof _and_ explosion-proof. Aliens were real, they were just invisible. How come we couldn't see farts? You could breath fire, if only you really believed it. Bobby Tam played guitar like Jimi Hendrix. Tires tasted like lemons. Why did my head hurt so much? What had I been doing down in the crypts?

I moaned. Tried opening my eyes. It took a few attempts. They fluttered open, but all I could see was a mottled, fuzzy patchwork of light and dark. I raised my hands to rub my eyes and heard something go _clink_. My hands stopped moving midway to my face.

Blinking, I stared down at my blurry hands and noticed they were handcuffed together. I didn't know why. Had I broken the law? Maybe I'd been drinking. That must've been it. I'd been arrested for driving under the influence, or maybe just partying too hard.

 _But you don't drink_ , whispered a tiny voice in the back of my head. _And the last time you went to a party was when your little brother turned fourteen_.

Well, it obviously was a misunderstanding. A breathalyzer test would clear all that up, wouldn't it?

Right about then, that's when I remembered what had happened at Landis. The shock was like ice water down my back. Blinking madly to clear my vision, I stared down at my hands. Yep, those were handcuffs. I yanked on them, but they were locked tight and chained to my waist for good measure.

I tried to stand and found that I was bound to a heavy chair with thick, scratchy nylon rope. My shoulders, waist, and chest were tied to the chair back. My legs had been spread; my knees and ankles were each bound to one of the chair legs. I struggled, but whoever had tied the knots had done so very well. I could barely move. Only my hands had any freedom, and they were chained to my waist, allowing maybe eight inches of movement.

 _Don't panic_ , I thought, panicking. _Whatever you do, don't panic._

Gasping, I looked around my prison. It was a storage room, I guessed, lit by a pair of dusty florescent light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. It was cold. There was a single metal door. Cinder block walls, plastic floor.

 _Plastic_? That was ominous. _Why is the floor covered in black plastic_?

The metal shelves were empty. There was a small crate about a foot away from my left knee. The only other object of interest was a camera on a tripod. A little antenna stuck out of the back and a red light glowed on the front, just above the lens.

Someone was watching.

“H-hello?” I said, swallowing back fear. Despite my best efforts, my voice wavered and shook. “Tara? What's going on?”

There was no response. I peered into the camera lens.

“Tara? Are you there?”

Nothing, again. I was alone. And tied up. And about ten seconds away from a serious panic attack.

_Come on, Elizabeth, stay calm. Losing it isn't going to help you. Just stay calm. What would Mama do here?_

That one was easy: she'd try to escape.

Gritting my teeth, I pulled on the cuffs, trying to get my hands in a position where I could reach any of the knots that bound my knees to the chair. The chain between the cuffs and my waist was too short. No matter what angle I tried, there was no way I could reach any of the ropes. Could I tip the chair, I wondered? Rocking back and forth, I figured I probably could—but how would that help? It felt solid. It probably wouldn't break. It wouldn't do any good. I strained my legs, trying to break the ropes or loosen the knots, but they held solid. I was well and truly stuck. There was nothing I could do to free myself. I kept struggling anyhow, even though I knew it was pointless.

It beat sitting still.

 

#####

 

Reese sat down next to Finch at the Library computer desk, crossing his legs. Finch gave no indication that he was aware of his presence.

“Harold,” said Reese, “you should get some rest.”

“Mr. Reese, we still don't have any leads on the whereabouts of Elizabeth Ruben.”

“Carter put an APB out on the van. We have its license plate. We'll find it again. Look, Finch, you've been sitting in this chair for thirteen hours.”

“If only Fandango Transportation had invested in a better GPS system for its vehicle fleet...” Finch muttered. He peered at a grainy traffic camera feed, a single frame recorded nine hours ago. “Where did Tara Dodson go? The van travels east, passes this rural gas station, and then...vanishes.”

“A back road, maybe? What's out there?”

“Not much. An industrial park, mostly abandoned.”

“Anything owned by Fandango?”

“No. The nearest property owned by the business is thirty miles away.”

“I'll visit the park first thing in the morning. You should really get some rest, Finch. I know you feel guilty about Elizabeth, but—”

“Mr. Reese, Elizabeth Ruben's life is in danger. We _must_ find her before it's too late.” Like a petulant little child, he added, “I can sleep here at my desk, if need be.”

Reese considered this. He walked away and returned a minute later with one of Finch's laptops. He set it on the desk with care, booted the laptop, and loaded up a map of the area around the gas station.

“Go sleep, Harold,” he said. “I'll watch the farm. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day...”

“Technically, it's today, Mr. Reese.” But Finch acquiesced. He stood—not without a wince of pain, Reese noticed—and shuffled off.

 

#####

 

I was exhausted. My muscles trembled. Despite my squirming, the ropes that held me to the chair were just as tight as they had been when I had regained consciousness. After awhile—a half-hour, maybe less—I gave up. I wasn't going anywhere. Much as I wanted to strain against the ropes in defiance, I realized that there was no point in wasting what little energy I had.

My legs and ankles were chafed from the loops of rough rope. My butt was sore. My ear itched. My wrists tingled. And I couldn't do anything about any of it.

Couldn't do anything about anything, really.

The metal door handle clicked, turned. I looked up just in time to see Tara Dodson walk into the room. Her suit and heels had been replaced by faded running sneakers, gray sweat pants, and a black sweater. There were deep, deep circles beneath her eyes and her hair looked more like a bird's nest than anything else. She held a large plastic box. I struggled to see what was inside, but at this distance, she could've had a bunch of bunnies in there and I wouldn't have been able to tell.

“What the hell, Tara?” I said.

“Sorry about the wait,” she said. She set the box on the floor and sat herself down on the crate in front of me. “Kinda hard to get the dosage right. I meant to knock you out for an hour or two. It figures you'd wake up at one in the morning, you moron.”

“What do you want, Tara?” I just couldn't get rid of that tremble in my voice.

“Right to the point. See, that's the problem with you, Lizzy. You're too focused. You see a problem, you get all _intense_ trying to figure it out. You never stop to think about any other solution, or what you're going to do once you find one.”

“Just tell me what you _want._ ”

“You know, I'm sick of you being a bossy little entitled shit. You get away with so much crap at Landis, and you're not even a full-time employee. You need to show a little respect.”

“Tell me what you want, _please_?”

She sighed. “Mmm, better. Well, I have to tell you eventually. Fine. I want your algorithm.”

I blinked, confused. “My—algorithm? Which one? _Oww_!”

The blow came out of nowhere. Tara's fist struck my cheek.

“The elliptic-curve encryption algorithm you've been working on for the past six months,” Tara said, raising her voice to a harsh shout. Spittle landed on my neck.

“You tazed me, drugged me, and tied me up just so you could get an _algorithm?”_

I saw her fist coming this time, but with my hands bound, I had no way to defend my face. A few seconds later, Tara reached into the plastic box and pulled out a hard-cover notebook and a pen. She balanced the notebook on my thigh and set the pen on top of it.

“It's in your head. I know it's in your head. You're going to write it down.”

I glanced down at the notebook, suddenly feeling sick. I could tell already that this wasn't going to end well, not at all.

“You think I have a photographic memory?” I said.

“You've been working on it for _six months_. It's all you talk about at work. Blah blah blah, curves, blah blah, better than RSA, blah blah blah performance blah security blah blah. I _know_ it's in your head.” She grabbed my cuffed hands and forced them down on top of the notebook. “Write. _NOW_.”

“Why do you want it so badly?” I asked.

Tara rolled her eyes. _“_ You're sitting on one of the biggest advancements in cryptography in a decade, Lizzy. And what do you want to do with it? Write a paper on it. Release it into the _public domain_. Write an _open-source_ implementation.”

“But then everyone can use it— _oww!_ Stop it!”

“Shut up,” she said, pointing at my face. “You just don't see, do you? It's just another one of your damn problems to be solved. Do you really not get how _valuable_ your algorithm is?”

“It's valuable if it's available for everybody. Look at how RSA—”

“You know what? I don't care. I don't want to hear it. Write it. Damn you, Lizzy, write it.”

“But—it's not—”

“Write it!”

“I _can't!_ ”

“Yes, you can. You just need a little persuasion.” A macabre, sickening smile had plastered itself to her face. Reaching into the box again, Tara pulled out a small pair of rusted garden shears, the kind with a wicked-looking curved blade about three inches long. As soon as I saw it, the dread swelled in my stomach.

“You're right handed,” Tara said. She reached out and grabbed my left wrist, holding it like a vice. Before I could react, she had placed my pinky finger between the blades and squeezed ever so slightly.

I gasped. “No! _Nononono—_ “ I used my left hand for typing all the time! I could type faster with my left than with my right. Losing a finger would be even worse than losing a foot or a leg.

Tara squeezed tighter, pinching my finger near the hand. I didn't want to struggle, because I knew that if I did, the finger would be a goner. My hand shook.

“You only need one hand to write,” Tara said, still with the horrible grin on her face. “I have five perfectly good fingers to go through before I start with your other hand.”

“Please, d-don't—”

“It's up to you, Lizzy. Write it down. The whole thing. Or you can kiss your pinky goodbye.”

“But it—”

“Last chance.”

 _“It doesn't work_! _”_ I cried. “The algorithm doesn't fucking _work!_ ”

The smile remained on Tara's face, but now a cold fire burned behind her eyes. The shears trembled. I winced.

“What do you mean, it doesn't work?” she whispered. Her voice was somewhere around absolute zero.

“It doesn't work. I—it just—I can't figure it out.” Tears began to leak from my eyes. “I'm missing some little piece and it's throwing everything off. I've been trying to figure it out for four months.”

“It doesn't work.” Tara said. Her smile slipped, fell. She dropped the garden shears and stood up. Rubbed her forehead. Paced in front of me.

“It just spits out garbage,” I said. “I don't know what's wrong with it.”

“Well. I guess that means you're useless to me then.” Tara reached into the box again, and this time, she pulled out a gun. I was pretty sure my heart stopped when she pointed the barrel right at my head. I couldn't find my voice.

She said, “Either you start writing _right now_ or I'm putting a bullet through your brain.”

“I—I—“

Tara cocked the gun.

“P-please,” I whispered. “We used to be friends.”

“Yeah, well, a little late for that, isn't it?”

“You're not a killer, Tara,” I said, desperate.

“Oh, really? Why don't you put that problem-solving brain of yours to use and figure out what all this plastic is for, huh?” She stomped twice on the black plastic covering the floor, and I realized: it was to catch my blood. She had planned to kill me all along, one way or another.

“It'll be a lot less irritating at Landis without you,” Tara said.

I squeezed my eyes shut—I couldn't watch. I didn't want to see Tara pull the trigger. I didn't want to think about her pulling the trigger. If I was going to die, I wanted to die thinking about something happy—Mama taking me to visit Moscow when I was a little girl, maybe, or the day I had gotten the acceptance letter from the University.

I waited to die, but the seconds ticked on and nothing happened. Until—

“Damn you, Lizzy,” Tara said. I risked opening my eyes. She had lowered the gun, but the look on her face was only slightly less deadly than the firearm. I was so focused on her glare, I didn't see her raise the gun again until the barrel struck me on the forehead. This time, the darkness took me instantly.

 

#####

 

The bright light shining in my eyes didn't do much to ease the headache. Neither did the steady thrumming noise. I moaned and squinted.

“Good, you're conscious,” came Tara's voice. She stepped between me and the spotlights from hell. Squatted down in front of me. “Thought I'd messed up the dose again. I wanted you to be awake for this.”

“For what?” I slurred. My wrists stung like hell and for some reason they were up above my head. Tilting my head back, I saw that they had been handcuffed to a long horizontal metal bar about a foot up. “Where am I?”

“You'll figure it out,” said Tara. “Use that big brain, Lizzy.”

I looked down and was horrified to see that I was naked as the day I'd been born.

“Oh my god!” I yelled, squirming. “Where are my clothes?”

“You don't need them anymore.”

I was sitting up against a wall. It was cold against my back, like ice, and when I moved my legs to try to shield myself from view, I realized that the floor was pretty damn cold too. The walls, the floor, the ceiling—they were all corrugated metal, painted a dull red. I was in a shipping container. Judging by the noise outside, there was a running car parked there with its headlights shining inside.

Tara stood, letting the light glare in my eyes again. I winced.

“You were right, Lizzy,” she said, backing towards the open end of the cargo container. “I'm not a killer.” She patted one of the metal walls. “This container will do the dirty work for me. I was gonna dump your body here, anyway.”

It took a second to process what she had said, and when I did, I wished I hadn't. I began to stutter. “You—you're not going to—look, I'll keep working on the algorithm! I'll figure it out, I'll do whatever you want! Just don't—”

“Bye, Lizzy.” Tara grabbed one of the heavy metal doors and swung it shut with a harsh metal clank.

“ _Wait!”_ I yelled. Tara paused with the other door halfway closed. I wasn't sure what to say. I just knew that I needed to say _something_ , anything, to keep her from closing that door. Anything to keep her talking.

“How come you took my clothes?” I said. It was the first thing that had popped into my mind.

Tara, silhouetted by the headlights, shrugged and said, “I had it all planned out. I was gonna get rich. I was gonna buy a house in Florida, run that newsletter business I've always wanted. But here you've gone and screwed up _those_ plans. So you know what, Lizzy? _Fuck_ you. Fuck you sideways. I took your clothes because I'm pissed off and I don't want you to die comfortable. Plus, I need to put them somewhere far away, make it look like someone else kidnapped you. Bye now.”

“Wait, wait, WAIT!”

The door slammed, cutting off the light and leaving me in complete darkness.

“Tara?” I cried, yanking on the handcuffs. They wouldn't give. I struggled to stand. “Tara! Let me out!”

The sound of the car engine swelled. Tires crunched on gravel. The sound faded.

“ _TARA!_ ” I screamed. It was a desperate, inhuman sound, and it reverberated off the metal walls. I screamed again, and again, until I thought my vocal cords were going to rip, but there was no one to hear it.

I collapsed onto the floor and began to sob.

 

######

 


	13. Chapter 13

**July 2011**

 

The darkness was suffocating, overwhelming, oppressive. I couldn't see my body. I couldn't see my surroundings. Couldn't breath. The icy blackness around me was liquid, and it was flooding my lungs, crushing them like I was trapped at the bottom of a deep, black pool. My heart pounded so fast I thought it'd burst right out of my chest. I was making all sorts of incoherent noises; choked sobs and shaky gasps and pathetic whimpers, like some dog that had been chained up to be beaten. Like an _animal_ being led to the slaughterhouse.

Like someone stripped of their clothing and left to die in a cargo container.

 _I'm gonna_ die _,_ I thought. _Oh my god, I'm gonna die. Oh god, I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonnadieI'mgonnadieI'mgonnadie—_

I was paralyzed by shock. My body trembled, shivered. The metal around me was cold, very cold against my bare skin, but I couldn't move. Frenzied thoughts rushed through my mind, a dozen per second:

 _She can't_ do _this. It's illegal—_

_Don't panic, don't panic, you can figure this out—_

_You're not allowed to leave someone to die in a cargo container._ _That kind of thing only happens on TV—_

 _I'm such an_ idiot, _how did I miss how weird she's been acting lately_?

 _Just calm down, calm down, like Mama always said, you gotta_ think—

_Would the police even look for me—?_

_If you'd figured out the algorithm already, you wouldn't be here—_

_How far away from New York am I—?_

_I'm gonna die I'm gonna_ die—

Closing my eyes—not that it made much difference—I tried to calm myself. Focused on not flipping out and not having a total mental breakdown. It worked, kinda.

 _Come on, Elizabeth_ , I thought. _You gotta try to escape. Maybe she didn't fasten the cuffs very well_. _Maybe the bar is loose. You're not gonna find out by just_ sitting _here._

I took a deep breath and squirmed around until my feet were under me. I used the cuffs to help pull myself up, wincing at the pressure around my wrists from the handcuffs. My legs shook like gelatin when I stood. I had to lean against the metal wall to steady myself. The floor was solid ice against the soles of my feet.

Both of my wrists were manacled to a metal bar about waist height. I traced my unsteady fingers along the contour of the handcuffs, then the freezing metal bar. I soon found that the bar ran from one side of the container to the other and it felt like it was welded to the very walls. The handcuffs slid along the bar, allowing me about six feet of horizontal movement and a few inches back and forth, but there was no break in the bar. It was solid.

I yanked on the bar, putting as much of my body weight into the movement as possible. I pounded on it. Cursed at it. It didn't so much as shudder. I tried pulling on the handcuffs, gently at first, then more violently. Aside from sending a sharp bolt of pain up my arms and making my wrists sting like hell, it didn't do anything. My bondage was simple, but horribly effective.

My quivering legs went out from under me and I crashed to the floor, landing on my hip. It stung. I hissed. Gritting my teeth, I pulled myself back up, slipped, caught myself on the bar. Fought back a tremendous urge to vomit. Forced myself to gulp down deep lungfuls of air.

 _Why waste the energy standing?_ I thought. _The bar is_ solid. _It's fucking_ metal. _There's no way I can break that._

My inner optimist—truly, all programmers are ever optimists—refused to be quelled so easily.

_Maybe I can pick the lock on the cuffs._

That idea was quickly followed by another thought: _With what, Einstein?_

_Maybe there's something on the floor, like a nail or something I can pick up with my toes._

_And you'll find it in the dark?_

_I'll feel it with my feet._

... _Right. You're gonna die. Oh my god, I'm going to die._

“Shut _up_ , Elizabeth,” I mumbled. The sound was swallowed by the darkness around me.

The cuffs scraped along the bar as I moved to the left as far as possible. I slid my foot across the floor until it reached the corner. Then, concentrating hard, I began to slid my foot outward, away from the back of the container, keeping my toes in contact with the left wall. The metal floor beneath my foot was smooth but for a thin layer of dust and grit.

 _Come on...God, let there be_ some _thing...a stick, a paperclip, a hairpin, anything_.

A second later, I began to laugh. The harsh sound reflected off the metal walls. Just to think: I might've been free by now if I'd been the type to tame my hair with a few bobby pins before I left for work each morning. But I'd never had the patience for that sort of thing...

I leaned backwards, pulling away from the bar as far as the cuffs allowed so I could stretch my leg back further, until I was squatting down on my right leg with my left leg out as far as it would go. I struggled to keep my balance.

There was nothing but cold metal and soft dust beneath my foot.

Gulping, I slid it a few inches away from the wall and began feeling my way back towards the rear of the container...

 

#####

 

The industrial park was in the middle of a wide field, surrounded by dry, brown weeds and decidedly unhealthy looking trees. John Reese arrived at the park just as dawn broke the horizon. He pulled into the empty parking lot and stepped out into the early morning chill, drawing his gun. There was no one else around.

“I'm at the industrial park, Finch,” he said, tapping his earpiece. “No one else here.”

There was a strip of low cement buildings, many of which were boarded up. An old repair garage, a decrepit hardware store, a kitchen and bathroom tile wholesaler, a small office building for an internet service provider. The front doors were all locked. Rather than break in at once, Reese headed around to the back, his senses all hyper-alert, scanning simultaneously for danger and any sign of the missing Elizabeth Ruben.

Wading through weeds, Reese scanned the back of the buildings. A fat transformer hummed nearby on a concrete pad. Next to it was a metal door—and it was ajar.

He said, “I found an entrance to one of the buildings. I'm going in.”

“Carefully please, Mr. Reese,” Finch said.

Wary of any traps, Reese nudged it further open, pulled out his flashlight, clicked it on, and stepped inside the building—the repair garage. It was dark within and the atmosphere was permeated with the odor of oil and metal. Reese moved deeper into the shadowy, carnivorous chamber. Two long, sloped pits in the concrete floor were lined up with a set of heavy garage doors. Reese avoided the pits as he skirted the room.

There were two open doors at the end of the garage. One of the doors led to a tiny office. The white door frame was stained gray where greasy hands had once grasped it. An aging, yellowing CRT monitor sat atop a desk that was clearly struggling to hold it aloft.

The other door led to a storage room. As soon as Reese peered inside, he knew that something was wrong. The room was empty—and it was too clean. Too organized. The bare metal shelves had been set neatly against one wall. A heavy wooden chair had been placed in the corner. There was nothing else of interest in the room.

Reese clicked on the lights and swept inside.

“Finch?” he said, looking around the room. “Someone's been at the garage recently. This room is too clean.”

“I just found a link to Fandango Transportation,” Finch said. “It appears that the company used to send some of its smaller vehicles to this garage for maintenance.”

“Maybe Dodson knew about it.”

He made a circuit of the room, checking under the shelves for anything that might have been missed. When he got to the chair, he paused and knelt down to examine it.

There were marks at the top and bottom of the chair legs, as though something had been tied to them.

“I think Elizabeth was here, Finch,” he said, standing. “She's gone now. I'll check the other buildings.”

 

#####

 

I gave up after going back and forth twice along the complete length of the bar, covering as much of the floor near me as possible. I had felt out an area about six feet long by five feet out with my soles and I had found nothing. _Nothing_ but dirt and grit.

My thighs felt like they were on fire. My legs were sore and my poor feet were frozen. I sat down hard, drawing my knees in as close to my body as possible. I was cold, very cold, and I did everything I could to minimize my contact with the cruel metal around me.

 _Well,_ I thought, _I tried. I really did, Mama. I tried my best and it's not enough. I'm dead. Because of that—that_ horrible _woman._

I wondered: would she get away with my murder? 'Cause I was dead, I knew that for sure—there was no way I would ever get out of this by myself, and unless somebody Up There felt like pulling out a miracle, I doubted that anyone would find me—or rather, my corpse—for a long, long time.

How careful had Tara been? I knew there were cameras all over the Landis building. At least one of them would've seen us together. But if she was careful, and if she put my clothes somewhere else to draw the investigation away, and if she'd driven a different car to wherever I was...

She was going to get away with it. I knew it in my heart. I was going to die, and no one would ever know what had happened to me. And all for a fucking algorithm that _didn't even work_.

I'd poured six months of my life into that code, only to have it spew out nonsense and gibberish whenever I tested it. I didn't even know why it was broken. It was perfect. It should've worked. I'd been over each line of code dozens of times and yet I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it.

The source code hovered like a ghost before my eyes. Sections of each line of code were highlighted in orange and green, just as it appeared in my favorite text editor. While the algorithm was very complex, the actual code was less than five hundred lines, and after having _slaved_ over it for half a year, it was burned into my memory for good. It taunted me.

 _You're here because of me_ , it said. _You can't even figure out why I'm broken_. _And now you're going to die because you were too inept to figure me out._

 _She would've killed me anyway,_ I thought glumly.

_Come on. Figure it out. Use that big brain of yours._

Well, it sure beat contemplating my death.

I concentrated on the first line of code. It declared a variable as a single character. Simple enough. I went on to the next line—another declaration—and found that I was beginning to relax, just a little bit. And then I read the next line, and the next. I began to mumble each line aloud as I got to it. By the time I got down deep into the nitty-gritty of the algorithm, I had managed to forget, for a precious short time, that I was tied up in a storage container.

I got to one line of code in particular, a perfectly innocent function call. Went past it. Paused. Went back. Mouthed each syllable, each symbol. I felt funny. Something was weird with that line of code, but I didn't have any references to compare it to.

I muttered. “...the function...takes a pointer to an int...”

 _A_ pointer _to an int..._

It hit me like a freight train, like the floor of the cargo container dropped out from under me. I felt my eyes go wide.

_Oh. My. God._

 

#####

 

Reese was on his way back to the car when his phone rang.

“It's Carter,” a voice crackled in his ear. “That van you told us to look for? We just found it.”

“Where?” Reese slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

“At the edge of the road in the middle of the boonies,” Carter said. She sighed. “It's been torched. Not much left inside.”

Finch's voice cut in on the connection.

“Detective Carter,” he said, “is there any sort of GPS unit in the vehicle?”

“Uhm, lemme check.” For a few seconds, there was the sound of people talking, gravel crunching, a hinge squeaking. “Yeah,” she said. “I think that's a GPS unit, anyway. Pretty burnt up, but it's in one piece.”

“Get it to me as soon as possible, Detective; I may be able to salvage its memory.”

Reese said, “Any sign of Dodson or Elizabeth?”

Carter said, “Not yet—”

In the background, amid the hubbub of noise, a voice shouted: “Detective!”

“I'll call you back,” she said, and she hung up.

“Finch,” Reese said, “do you have a lock on her phone?”

“Of course, Mr. Reese. She's about thirty miles south of your position on a rather isolated road. There are no structures of any sort for miles around.”

“Dodson's trying to throw the cops off her trail,” Reese said.

The phone rang again.

“John?” said Carter. “They found a woman's sandal in the back of the van.”

“Red?”

“Yeah. Used to be, at least. Doesn't look like there was anything else in the back. Look, when people start torching vans, that's a bad sign. I hate to say it, but your girl? She might be dead already.”

“I'm aware, Detective. Get that GPS unit to Finch.”

“All right.” She disconnected.

“Finch? Any ideas where Dodson might've gone from the industrial park?”

Reese's phone beeped with an incoming message.

“I've sent you a list of the nearest Fandango properties, Mr. Reese. Until I have the GPS unit, I'm afraid I can't do much better.”

“I'll try the closest one.” Reese put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Detective Carter may be right, Mr. Reese. Despite our best efforts...it may be too late for Miss Ruben.”

“Finch, do we have a new number this morning?”

There was a pause. “No. Why do you ask, Mr. Reese?”

“Because I won't stop looking for her until we do.”

 

#####

 

One character. My god. _One fucking little ampersand_ that should've been in front of the variable name, but wasn't. And it made the whole thing fall apart. Hell, it wasn't even the algorithm that was broken—it was my translation of the algorithm into the C programming language that was at fault.

 _How the_ hell _did I miss that for all those_ months? I thought.

I had no way to test the change without a computer and a C compiler, but I was near-certain that it was the root cause of the nonsensical output.

 _Great going, Elizabeth_ , I thought, shivering. _You found the bug. Now if only you'd gotten it released to the world before psycho-bitch kidnapped you, you wouldn't be here._

I had just solved the problem that had been perplexing me for months, but I felt no elation, only bitterness. It was too late to do anything about it. Way, way, way too late. The algorithm was going to die with me in the next day or two. All my source code was on an encrypted partition on my desktop and I doubted anyone would be able to make sense of my notes. I'd been hoping that my work would've made some positive difference in the world—now the algorithm would never have the chance. It would stay locked away on my computer until the drives were wiped or destroyed.

I wondered what would happen to my computers after I died. My books, my clothing, my music. All my possessions. Would someone take them? Would they be sold? Would my sandals and novels end up on a shelf in a thrift store somewhere? Would my computers be wiped? Would they just be given away as they were? The thought of other people handling _my_ possessions rankled me, especially when I thought of all the embarrassing things I had stored on my desktop computer but hadn't bothered to encrypt.

 _Once you're dead, you won't mind so much_ , I thought. _You won't even know if they'll find the “Untitled Folder 7” on your hard drive. And who cares if they do? You'll be_ dead _. You're gonna die._

I was exhausted, cold, frightened, and more than a little pissed-off. My arms were sore from being held up above my head. Frustrated, I yanked on the handcuffs. I felt nothing more than a dull ache of protest from my numb wrists. I yanked again, and again, and soon I started throwing my weight against the cuffs and screaming and shrieking, because I was _so_ angry, and _so_ afraid, and I just couldn't take it anymore, and I only stopped when I felt something warm and wet dribbling down my arm.

I couldn't feel my hands.

I sat down hard on my butt—at least I could still feel _that_ , at least for now. Crossed my legs. Cried. Cried hard. I didn't know what else to do.

I think I fell asleep for a little while, or maybe I fainted.

 

#####

 

I was woken by a sharp sound, like a gunshot. Opening my eyes, I was surprised to find that I could see again. Tiny beams of light leaked into the container through cracks and holes in the walls and ceiling. A narrow ray of light fell across my foot and thigh.

There wasn't much to see. The container was empty and much smaller than I had thought. I almost preferred the abject darkness—at least then I hadn't been able to see the dimensions of my prison.

Looking up, I saw caked blood around my wrists where the handcuffs had bitten them. I wiggled my fingers. They moved, but the motion made my wrists burn.

Another metallic _crack_ reverberated through the container. This time, I recognized the sound: thermal expansion. The sun was heating the exterior of the container...and that meant the interior would soon follow suit.

I was suddenly thinking of all the times I had entered my car after it had been sitting in the hot sun for a few hours.

S _hit_ , I thought. _I wonder which one will get to me first: heat stroke or dehydration_?

I wished that Tara had just killed me when she'd had the chance.

 

#####


	14. Chapter 14

**July 2011**

 

It was just past 10 o'clock in the morning and it was already proving to be one scorcher of a summer day. Reese stopped at a gas station convenience store and bought a small case of bottled water. Opening one of the bottles, he took a long swig. He set the rest of the bottles on the back seat, started the car, and drove off, headed for the next address on the list.

The first Fandango property had been a bust. None of the workers at the modest warehouse had seen Tara Dodson in weeks, or so they claimed. “Detective Stills” had twisted a few arms, made several ominous smiles, dropped a couple of thinly-veiled threats, and gained access to the security camera footage. Only three vans had entered the premises in the past twenty-four hours and none of them matched the license plate number he was searching for.

Reese still hoped that he would be able to find Elizabeth Ruben, but he was prepared to face the very real possibility that she had been killed by Tara Dodson.

The phone rang when Reese was a few hundred yards out from the second warehouse.

“Yeah, Finch?”

“I've just returned to the library with the GPS unit. It's extremely damaged, Mr. Reese, but the memory chip appears intact. If we're lucky, I'll be able to reconstruct Tara Dodson's route.”

“How long will it take?”

“An hour or two, if we're fortunate. I'll call you when I have news.”

“Will do.”

Reese pulled into the parking lot, stepped out of the car, straightened his jacket, pulled out “his” badge, and headed towards the office.

 

#####

 

The dark container around me creaked and groaned as it was heated from the outside. The wall against my back was warm, no longer frozen. The air within the container was heating up. It had reached “comfortable room temperature” awhile ago, but I knew it wouldn't stop there.

I was going to be baked like a turkey in an oven.

My mouth was dry. My arms ached, especially when I squirmed around to try and find a more comfortable position, so I did my best to hold still. I was too exhausted to move much, anyhow. A thick haze had settled over my mind, dampening my thoughts, my will. Part of me, a very small part of me, still wanted to fight, to struggle, to strain against the cuffs, but I just didn't have the energy.

I thought, _I'm gonna die..._

Somehow, that didn't disturb me as much as it should have.

 

#####

 

It was 11:41AM. Reese was at the third address on Finch's list. It had taken him a long time to drive there, and it was going to take him a long time to search. The place had been abandoned months ago. Weeds grew up through cracks in the asphalt and panes were missing from the warehouse windows. Reese's paper clip made short work of the door lock and he swept inside the sweltering building, his gun held ready.

It took him ten minutes to ensure that Elizabeth Ruben was not inside the building and another ten minutes to search the old truck trailers parked in a ragged row out back. Each time he slid one of the heavy rolling doors up, he called her name: “Elizabeth? Elizabeth Ruben, are you there?”

There was no answer.

Disappointed, he headed back to the car, turning the air conditioning up as high as it would go. He pulled out onto the main road, but before he got very far, his phone beeped.

“Mr. Reese,” said Finch, “I've got it!” He spoke very rapidly. “Tara Dodson's last route should be on your phone now. I've highlighted the address where she stopped first after leaving the industrial park.”

Reese glanced at the phone, pulled a tight U-turn, and floored the accelerator. The address was seventy miles away...

 

#####

 

By now my mouth felt like a desert. I couldn't believe how hot it was. I had never experienced anything like this before, not even when the air conditioning had failed in my apartment last summer when I'd had all my computers simultaneously compiling a massive application. The metal wall was like an iron pressed against my back and the floor seared my poor feet and thighs, but I couldn't move. Could barely breath. The air felt stiflingly thick, like I was eating it rather than breathing it.

I knew wouldn't be able to take this for long. I was done for. A goner. Dead, but still breathing—for now. This was how life ended for me. Not peacefully in bed, not in a car crash, not from being mugged, not from cancer, not from drowning, not from electrocution, not from a heart attack. No; I had the honor of being _baked alive._

I'd accepted my fate, in a way. My only regret was that my mother would never know what had happened to her daughter...

My body had enough moisture for a few last tears.

“I'm so sorry, Mama,” I croaked. “Guess you were right. Should'a stayed with you in Colorado...”

 

#####

 

Reese slammed on the brakes, took the turn hard. The tires kicked up a cloud of dust and gravel as he pulled into the driveway, screeched to a halt, and leaped out of the car. He rushed up to the gate.

The lock had been cut.

He tore it off and swung the gate wide, forcing it up against the overgrown weeds on either side of the driveway. Getting back into the car, he drive as fast as he could safely do so on the winding gravel road.

There were only a few structures in the middle of the field: an uneven row of old cargo containers, an outhouse, a transformer, a rusted radio tower, a few streetlights, and a squat, one-story building missing all of its windows. Heat radiated off the container in visible waves. Reese parked the car in front of the building and got out, gun at the ready. He approached the building.

“Elizabeth Ruben?” he called. “Elizabeth, can you hear me?”

 

#####

 

When I heard the voice, I was sure I was hallucinating. I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't anymore.

“Elizabeth? Elizabeth, can you hear me?”

I moaned. Every breath was a nightmare burning in my throat. I wanted to stop breathing. I wanted to die.

“Elizabeth? Elizabeth Ruben?”

 _Maybe it's an angel_ , I thought. _Maybe somebody's finally come to take me up there to see my little brother again_.

Gravel crunched outside, and I realized: it wasn't a hallucination, and it wasn't an angel. Someone was _here_.

I opened my mouth, tried to speak. I was quickly overcome by coughing. Drawing in a deep, gasping, breath, I wheezed, “Help! I'm in here.”

There was a rusty creak, a screech of metal on metal, and the doors were flung wide. A man stood there, outlined by sunlight like something holy.

“Elizabeth,” he breathed, running forward. “Hold still, hold still.” He knelt next to me, leaned over my body, grabbed one of the handcuffs. I saw a paperclip in his hand, and then I didn't see the paperclip in his hand because he'd stuck it in the lock, and a few seconds later my arms dropped to my side like limp sacks of potatoes. He didn't bother unlocking the other wrist. The cuffs dangled as he scooped me up, cradling me in his arms like I weighed nothing more than a little girl. He carried me out into the sunlight, and suddenly, I could breath again.

 _Wooooow,_ I thought once my eyesight had adjusted to the light. _On second thought, maybe he_ is _an angel._

“I've got her,” the man said. “She's alive.” I didn't know who he was talking to. God, maybe?

There was the sound of a door opening and I found myself staring out the windshield of a car, seeing nothing but blue sky and a lonely security camera hanging from a metal pole. I couldn't move my head to see anything more. The man leaned across my body, reaching towards the steering wheel. The engine grumbled into life and air blasted from the dash vents; _cold_ air, heaven incarnate.

I panted, relishing the breeze against my bare skin.

“Here,” the man said. He held up a water bottle, but I was too weak to raise my arms. He pressed it to my lips. I drank gulp after gulp, but soon began to sputter and cough. Water dribbled down my cheek, ran down my neck, dripped from my chin onto my chest and breasts. I didn't care. It felt wonderful.

“Take it slow,” the man said gently, pulling the water bottle away. “It's all right. You're safe now, Elizabeth.”

I reached for the bottle like a helpless baby, and a moment later he guided it into my shaking hands. The whole forcing-myself-to-drink-slow thing was a joke. I would've emptied the bottle in seconds if he hadn't taken it away again.

“W-who are you?” I gasped.

“My name is John Reese,” he said. “I'm here to save you.”

“You sure I'm not hallucinating?”

He held up two fingers. “How many fingers?”

“Twenty-seven. And you have three noses.”

He chuckled and said, “Sit still for awhile.”

I didn't have much choice. I was paralyzed by shock...and awe.

He brought out the paperclip again and removed the cuffs from around my other wrist. He tossed them into the back, then closed my door. Walked around the car and settled into the driver's seat. Pulled a first-aid kit from beneath his seat and two water bottles from the back.

Reaching into the first-aid kit, he fished out a little packet and poured its powdered contents into one of the bottles. It turned the water bright orange. He replaced the cap, turned it over several times, and shook it before handing me the bottle.

“Drink it _slowly_ ,” he said. “You're dehydrated.”

It tasted disgusting, like liquid fake-orange candy, but I drank some anyway.

“Hold out your hands,” he said. “I need to clean your wrists. It might sting.” With the other bottle, he splashed water on my bloody wrists, then wiped away the dried blood with a soft cloth. His movements were gentle and sure, but just as he'd warned, it stung. He was lucky I was so weak, otherwise I might've punched that beautiful, rugged face of his; bopped him right in the nose. When he was done, he dabbed soothing antiseptic ointment on each wrist and wrapped them both in gauze.

“Let's get you home, Elizabeth,” he said.

 

#####

 

The ride back to New York was very long and, at first, very quiet. Wherever Tara Dodson had dumped me, it seemed to be a long way from home. I didn't recognize the countryside rolling past the window. So far, it had been empty fields and abandoned industry.

I crossed my legs, shuffled my bare feet against the floor mat. The only clothing I wore was a suit jacket that John Reese had loaned me—right off his back. It hung loosely off my shoulders and did little to conceal my body. I didn't really care. I was too busy enjoying being alive.

God, I'd never realized what a miracle air conditioning was.

John's voice—that mysterious, enticing half-whisper of a voice—broke into my thoughts.

“You hungry?” he asked. “Gas station coming up.”

“No,” I said.

“It's shock. You're still running on adrenaline.”

“Yeah, well, nearly dying does that to you I guess.”

I glanced at John—the man who had just saved my _life_ , although it hadn't really sunk in yet that I wasn't about to die—and said, “How did you know where to find me? Not—not that I'm ungrateful or anything...”

“Tara Dodson had a GPS unit in her van,” John said. “It showed where she left you.”

“Did you arrest yet her?”

John smiled. “No, but the police will find her...in a day or two.”

Startled, I said, “You're not a cop?”

“No.”

“What are you, then? How did you even know about Tara?”

“I'm just a guy in the right place at the right time,” he said.

“Seriously, how'd you know I was in trouble?”

A smirk. “I have my methods.”

“Okay, Batman. What do you do for a living?”

“I've been known to lounge around my expansive manor sipping ginger ale.”

“Uh-huh. Really, John. What are you? What do you do? How'd you even find me?”

“I...help people, Elizabeth. People like you, who've gotten themselves into bad situations.”

“You _are_ Batman. Where's your mask?”

“Left it at home.”

I rolled my eyes and went back to watching out the window.

 

**#####**

 

The shakes started about the time we crossed the New York City limits late that evening. At first, it was just the slightest tremble in my arms and legs, but by the time we pulled into a parking garage, I was shivering as thought I'd been left outdoors in a blizzard.  
John pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine.

“Where are we?” I said. Like my body, my voice shook.

John put his warm hand on my arm and said, “Detective Carter is going to be here in a few minutes. You can trust her. She's the finest police officer I know.”

“Oh,” I said.

There was silence in the car for several minutes.

“I don't know how I can possibly thank you,” I whispered.

“There's no thanks necessary,” he said.

“You saved my life. I—I don't know how to thank you. I _owe_ you my life.”

“You owe me nothing, Elizabeth.”

“Seriously. Anything I can give you—name it. I—I make a lot of money, and...”

“Just be careful what friends you pick from now on.” He nodded towards a Crown Vic that had just pulled into a nearby parking space. “Here comes Detective Carter. Roll down your window and stay here for a moment.” He unbuckled his seat belt, pushed open the door, and stood. I watched him walk over to the Crown Vic. The driver—a woman with black hair and deep chocolate skin—had gotten out of the car. She had a large paper bag in her hand and a badge around her waist. John talked to her. She glanced my way, then back at John. Handed John the bag. He walked back over to the car.

“Detective Carter brought you some clothes,” John said, giving me the bag through the open window. Inside, there was a pair of loose white briefs, a short blue bathrobe, and a pair of black flip-flops. Touched, I began to dress myself in the confines of the car. John, a true gentleman, turned his back when I shed the jacket. I was surprised to find that the briefs and flip-flops both seemed to be in my size, but in the grand scheme of the crazy things that had happened today, it wasn't very weird at all. I chalked it up to coincidence.

I felt a little better with the bathrobe wrapped around my body. It went down to my knees and was thin enough to wear on a hot summer's night like this. I opened the car door and stood, but I found myself reluctant to move. My quaking legs began walking only when John set his warm hand on my back and guided me towards Detective Carter.

“Elizabeth Ruben,” he said, “meet Detective Jocelyn Cater. Detective Carter, Elizabeth Ruben.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Detective Carter. She shook my hand.

“Hello,” I said.

“I have to go,” John said. “But first, Elizabeth, I want you to listen to me.” His eyes—those captivating, _intense,_ soul-melting blue eyes—seemed to be staring right into my heart.

“I'm listening,” I said.

“It's going to get worse,” he said softly. “You're gonna have nightmares and insomnia, and panic attacks, and the shakes, and phobias. Maybe you won't be able to look at a cargo ship ever again. Maybe you'll never want to go out at night. You're gonna have days you beat yourself up for being so stupid—not that you did anything stupid—and days you feel like you just can't take one more step.”

“This isn't very encouraging,” I mumbled.

“A solider comes home from shooting up bad guys, and suddenly the only enemy he has is his own mind. But it happens to normal people too, Elizabeth—people like you. It just takes time to overcome. It gets worse, then it gets better. You can survive it. You're tough, Elizabeth.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Detective Carter will take care of you,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. I wrapped my arms around his chest in a tight hug. I didn't want to let go, I really didn't—but after several seconds, John extricated himself from my grip.

“Stay strong, Elizabeth,” he said. “Another time, Detective Carter.”

John got into his car, backed out of the parking space, and drove away. His car turned a corner and suddenly was gone. I stared after it until Detective Carter put her arm around my shoulder and guided me to her car.

“Come on, hun,” she said. “It's alright. Let's go.”

 

#####

 

Detective Carter took me first to a quiet little medical clinic on a quiet little New York street. The young doctor wore her black hair in a tight bun and looked like she was just out of med school. She wasted no time in examining me, but focused her attention on my wrists.

“Good, it doesn't look like there's any infection,” she said. “Keep these clean and change the dressings every day, and they shouldn't scar. You're still dehydrated. Keep your fluids up and take it easy for the next few days. Chicken noodle soup is good, if you have it. Lots of water, orange juice. Remember to drink more water if you drink tea or anything with caffeine—it dehydrates.”

She didn't ask about where I had gotten my injuries.

Detective Carter then took me to the police precinct. She was both understanding and efficient. She took my statement without interrupting my story, which was good, because I worried that if I stopped telling it I would never be able to start again. I didn't want to re-live the hell I had just gone through any more than absolutely necessary.

My legs wouldn't stop twitching the whole time. I had to hold my hands tight together in my lap, otherwise, they trembled like crazy.

When I finished telling my story, I asked Carter, “Did you find Tara yet?”

“No, but believe me—we're looking. We'll find her.”

“ _Good_ ,” I said.

For several minutes, she filled out paperwork, then set the pen and papers aside.

“We're officially done,” she said, smiling.

“Great, can I go home now?”

“Hang on,” she said. “I wanna talk to you for a minute before I drive you home.”

“Okay.”

Detective Carter leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You heard what he said in the garage. PTSD is a horrible thing, and it can hit _any_ body—war veteran, police officer, bank teller, or computer programmer.”

“I heard.”

“I know some damn good counselors. It helps to have someone to talk to, you know?”

I looked down at my lap. Played with the fabric belt on the robe. Chewed my lip. “I just wanna get back to my life,” I said.

“I know, hun, I know.” I heard the sound of a pen scratching, then Carter slid something across the desk to me. It was a business card. “But if you change your mind—if you need someone to talk to, there's the phone numbers of a couple _damn_ good counselors. My number's on there too. You can call it anytime. I mean it. Any time you need it, you understand?”

“Thanks,” I said. I picked it up and slipped it into the pocket of the robe.

 

#####

 

By the time I got back to my apartment, it was well into the night. Detective Carter walked me to my front door and handed me a key.

“I had the super make you a new one,” she said. “'Cause we haven't found your wallet yet. You sure you're alright?”

“I'll be fine,” I said, hoping that I sounded more confident than I felt. I fingered the unfamiliar key and used it to unlock my front door. Clicked on the lights. “Thanks for everything, Detective Carter.”

We hugged. She walked to her car and drove off. I stepped inside my apartment. Slipped off the flip-flops. Locked the door behind me.

For a moment, I didn't recognize where I was. I mean, I knew it was my apartment—but it felt alien, unfamiliar, even though I had been here less than forty-eight hours ago, getting ready for another routine day at Landis, blissfully unaware of the ordeal I would be forced to endure.

I stood there in the entryway. I didn't know what to do. I was exhausted. I was starving. I craved a shower. I needed to pee.

My stomach and bladder decided for me. I did my business in the bathroom and headed straight for the kitchen. I had a few cans of soup in the back of one of the cupboards. I usually ate only half the contents of a can and put the rest in the refrigerator, but tonight, I ate it all. Mechanically. Like a robot. Insert spoon, raise to mouth, eat soup, swallow, lower spoon, repeat until bowl is empty.

After supper, I headed for the shower. I ran the hot water to give the shower time to warm and stripped off my clothes, hanging the blue bathrobe from the hook on the bathroom door. I spent a long time washing dirt and dust from every square inch of my body, especially the bottom of my feet, which were blackened with filth. It took awhile. (It didn't help that my feet were a little too ticklish.)

And that's when my adrenaline high finally came tumbling down, down, down. One moment I was trying to balance on one leg to scrub the opposite foot, and the next, I realized: _I shouldn't be here right now_. _I should be_ dead _._

I set the soap down, feeling nauseous. Hung the washcloth on the faucet handle. My knees quaked, and before I knew it, I was down on the tiled floor of the shower stall, my back pressed to the corner, my arms wrapped around my knees. The hot water flowed around my feet to the drain.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, rocking myself forward and backward. “Oh my god.” My face was wet, and not from the shower. I wiped my eyes. The tears kept coming, and they wouldn't stop, and that was perfectly all right with me because I needed to cry, a lot. No one could hear me. No one could see me. I was free to let it all out. I didn't have the words to describe the emotions swirling around in my gut, but the tears did a decent job. It felt _good_ to cry, to wail.

It felt good to be alive.

I stayed in the shower for a long, long time.

 

#####

 

Later that night, I clicked off the bedroom light, plunging the room into darkness. I felt funny right away, before I'd even had time to crawl beneath the sheets. I was drowning. My heart surged and I began to hyperventilate. My fingers scrambled for the lamp on the bookshelf next to the bed and by the time I managed to find the switch my entire body was trembling.

 _You're kidding me, right?_ I thought. _I've never been afraid of the dark_.

Taking a deep breath, I turned off the lamp again and pulled the covers over my head, but every moment in the blackness was like being _back there_. I rubbed my wrists, tried to remind myself that I was free now, I was alive, I wasn't in any danger of roasting to death—but it was useless. I _needed_ light, even a little bit of light. My little brother had always slept with a tiny nightlight. I had used to make fun of him for it. Now I understood why he'd freaked out when I'd hidden it from him one night.

 _I'm so sorry, Gray_ , I thought as I clicked on the light again. I kicked the covers away and stood. I wore nothing but my underclothes. Stepping around the computer parts that littered the floor, I padded over to the desk, grabbed the wireless router, and ripped the electrical tape away, revealing the green LED power lights beneath. I found it rather ironic that, months ago, I had covered the router so I could sleep without the lights shining in my face. Now I was _un_ covering the lights so I could sleep without feeling like I was dying.

I removed the tape from the indicators on the network switch as well, just for good measure. A piece of tape fell onto the desk—on top of my notes. The notes for the algorithm.

Suddenly I didn't feel like sleeping, even though it was two in the morning and my body was exhausted.

I sat down in my chair and powered on the desktop. It had been the first computer that I had restored from backups after the attack on my network—I wondered, had that been Tara's doing too? Had she been _that_ desperate for my work on elliptic-curve cryptography? After having witnessed what she was capable of, it didn't seem unlikely.

The desktop presented a login prompt. I entered my username and password and waited for it to decrypt the partition. I pulled up a file browser, navigated to my high-security projects directory. To the elliptic-curve directory.

My fingers shook as I double-clicked on the algorithm's source code file. I scrolled down, reading the familiar code. When I came to the suspicious function call, I gasped. I had been right. The ampersand was missing.

I held down the shift key and _slammed_ my finger down on the number 7. Saved the file. Brought up a terminal. Compiled the file.

This was it. This was the test. After all, it might've still been broken. There might've been other _stupid_ bugs in the code still. There was only one way to find out.

I ran the application, generated a public/private key pair, then told the program to encrypt a message with the public key. Anything I encrypted with the public key could only be decrypted with the paired private key.

It prompted me to input the message text.

After some hesitation, I typed: “I owe my life to John Reese.” Pressed enter. The console spat out a block of seemingly random alphanumeric characters. There was no way to tell if it was correct until I tried decrypting it with the corresponding private key.

My hand had a hard time moving the mouse. The pointer was jiggling around and kept missing the text I was trying to select. After several seconds, I managed to select the encrypted text, copied it to the clipboard. I ran the program again, loaded the private key. Told it to decrypt a message.

I pasted the encrypted text in the terminal, took a deep breath and pressed enter.

The terminal printed: **I owe my life to John Reese**.

 _Jesus Christ_ , I thought. _I did it. It_ worked.

I went out to the kitchen to celebrate with a cookie. Then I printed out the console log. I was going to frame this and hang it on the wall—my first ever successful elliptic-curve decryption.

I didn't sleep that night, but not because of the dark. I didn't sleep because I stayed up the entire night writing a proper front-end application for my encryption system. It felt good to write code. It felt good to be alive to write code. By concentrating on the application, I didn't have time to worry about the horrors of the past few days.

I fell asleep at my keyboard and didn't wake up until 2PM. If it hadn't been for the paper sitting in the printer tray, I would've thought I'd been dreaming.

 

#####

 

Tara Dodson hummed to herself as she unlocked her little sportscar in the garage early the next morning. She slid into the front seat, closed the door, and started the engine.

She didn't notice the suited man sitting in the back seat.

Not until it was too late, that is.

 

#####


	15. Chapter 15

**July 2011**

 

John Reese arrived at the library far later than usual. He carried a large pink cardboard box, still warm from the bakery.

Reese had long ago learned that he could get away with quite a lot, so long as Harold Finch was properly mollified with pastries and other delicacies.

The folding gate protecting Finch's inner lair had been slid aside and the chamber was filled with the soft mutterings of computer hard drives and cooling fans. Finch himself was seated in front of the computers, tapping away at the keyboard with a look of idle disinterest on his face. Bear had curled up on the doggie bed by the desk. When the dog heard Reese's near-silent footsteps, he leaped up and rushed forward eagerly, tail wagging, nose sniffing at the sweet, sweet smell drifting from the box borne by his Alpha.

Finch said, “Good morning, Mr. Reese. You're running far later than usual.”

“'Morning, Finch,” he said, setting the box of doughnuts on the desk. Without looking away from his work, Finch reached out with one hand, unerringly flipped open the box lid, picked up a napkin, and used it to select a pastry from within.

Reese said, “I had some business to attend to. You didn't call, so I assume we don't have a number.”

Bear sat patiently by the desk, his tail still, his gaze fixed on the box as though he could make it spill its contents by sheer will.

Finch said, “No number this morning, Mr. Reese. Our docket is clear.” He glanced at the box, noticed its unusually large size, and then peered up at Reese, who was looking innocently around the chamber. “Anticipating a pastry shortage, Mr. Reese?”

“You know, Harold, 'the library' just doesn't have that ring to it. I think we should start calling this place the Batcave. You've even got a Batcomputer here. Six of them, actually. Plenty of Batbooks. Batguns. Batgrenades. Batsuits. We even have a Batdog.”

Finch raised an eyebrow. Bear tilted his head.

“Nevermind,” Reese said, sitting down next to his boss. He grabbed a doughnut of his own. Munched on it. Looked at the monitors.

“What are you doing, Harold?” Reese asked. “Hacking the Pentagon? Reprogramming the Machine? Updating your FriendZone status?”

“Editing several Landis personnel files,” Finch muttered. “Ensuring that the company will offer Elizabeth Ruben a full-time position worthy of her skills when she graduates. If they don't, I hear IFT is looking for a network security engineer.”

“I think she'd like that.”

“According to Miss Ruben's file, Tara Dodson attempted to have her fired multiple times for minor infractions, all of which are utterly frivolous—dress code violations, for example. Each time, Isaac Leory vouched for Miss Ruben.”

“A jerk with a heart of gold.” Reese took another bite from his doughnut, then tore off a chunk and tossed it to Bear.

“I returned the thirty thousand dollars to his account, plus a little interest. I disguised it as a banking error. But I'm still trying to ascertain what sort of blackmail material Tara Dodson has on him.”

“I wouldn't worry too much about her, Finch.”

The steady clattering of the keyboard stopped. Finch rotated his chair to face Reese, who shrugged.

“I'm just saying, Harold,” said Reese. “When the police find Tara Dodson, she will be very, very cooperative. I doubt she'll be blackmailing anyone.”

There was a long pause. Finch opened his mouth once, closed it. He finally said, “I don't want to know.” He returned his attention to the monitors.

Reese threw another chunk of doughnut towards Bear. The dog tracked the flying projectile with all the accuracy of a computer-guided missile defense system and snapped the tasty tidbit right out of the air.

For awhile, the Batcave was quiet.

Finch said, “I'm glad you found her in time, John.”

“Just barely. We never would've found her without your magic on the GPS unit.”

“Do you think she'll be alright? Not everyone can shrug off a near brush with death as easily as you.”

“She's got a long road ahead of her...but she's pretty stubborn. I think she'll be fine.”

“We should keep an eye on her.” said Finch. When Reese raised his eyebrows, Finch quickly added, “For—for her own safety.”

Reese smirked.

“You like her, Harold.”

“I _respect_ Miss Ruben's abilities as a fledgling colleague,” Finch said, sounding rather stiff about it. “She has great potential as a security programmer and the world would be a worse place without her algorithms.”

He paused, leaned back as best he could in his chair. Adjusted his glasses.

“Yes, I like her,” he said softly.

“That's good,” Reese said. “I like her too.”

He checked his watch, threw the rest of the doughnut to Bear, and said, “I'm meeting with Detective Carter for lunch at Addison's. Want to join us, Finch?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Reese. Thanks to the overabundance of pastries you've provided, my nutritional needs will be satisfied for the next two weeks.”

“Not if you let Bear sneak any. Guard the box, Harold.”

“I wouldn't _need_ to guard it if you would cease slipping him food when you think I'm not looking, John.”

“Hey, a dog's gotta eat. For a rich guy, you buy the lousiest dog food.” Chuckling, Reese swung his jacket over his shoulder and strode towards the gate.

“Oh, Finch?” he said over his shoulder. “I really think 'the Batcave' is better.”

“Enjoy your meal, Mr. Reese,” said Finch.

He waited until Reese's footsteps had faded away before returning his attention to the monitor. His work in the Landis database was done, as was his modification of Isaac Leroy's bank accounts. He closed the windows and brought up the files he had been examining earlier that morning: Elizabeth Ruben's source code for the Landis wireless encryption systems. The files were among those he had managed to copy from her desktop before the backdoor had been removed.

Miss Ruben's code was good. It wasn't flashy, it wasn't excessively verbose. Succinct enough to get the job done, yet self-documenting, making the comments she added superfluous. To Finch, reading her source code was like reading a book. He understood what each component did and why it did it.

He spotted three places where her algorithms could have been optimized, but the performance gains would have been negligible. Either she had not noticed the potential optimizations, or she was wise enough to realize that the effort needed to optimize the code wouldn't have paid off in the end.

Smiling, he closed the file and began looking through the rest of Elizabeth Ruben's projects directory. There were a few other encryption programs, including what looked like a small daemon to encrypt DNS queries and responses; a small web server she had written herself; a patched, high-performance version of OpenSSH augmented by her own algorithms...

It looked like she'd even written her own cryptographic hash function.

As Finch examined each of the projects, his mind began to wander. A little voice in the back of his head said, _You stole these files, you know. Right from her hard drives._

His initial reaction was, _Well, she should have protected them better. She could've put these on the encrypted partition, but she didn't._

The voice refused to be silenced. _This source code does not belong to you._

He browsed through Elizabeth Ruben's projects directory, and each time he opened another source code file, he felt incrementally more and more guilty.

_You shouldn't be looking through her code. How would you feel if she did this to you?_

He thought of the anguish in her voice, distorted by distance and Reese's phone, as she had held Bobby Tam at gunpoint and accused him of hacking into her network.

Reese's voice echoed in his head.

 _You like her, Finch_.

Yes, he liked her—as a colleague, of course. And in general, colleagues didn't hack each other's networks. Not unless they were penetration testers, anyway.

He frowned. Sighed.

Finch pulled the keyboard closer to him, brought up a command window, and typed: **rm -vrf ~/raid4/ruben/**

“Professional courtesy, Miss Ruben,” he muttered. He hit the enter key, sat back, and watched his computers purge Elizabeth Ruben's files from their hard drives.

 

#####

 

Addison's was a tiny bar and grill in Lower Manhattan. The place was dark, which suited John, and they grilled the best mushroom cheeseburger this side of 23rd street, which suited Detective Carter.

“Mmm,” she said, wiping her mouth with the corner of her napkin. “I forgot how good this place was.” It was hard to hear her. What with the bustle of the lunch crowd, the blaring flat-screen TVs, and the music of the Doors blasting from the overworked stereo speakers by the bar, Addison's was an auditory nightmare—but it made it very difficult for anyone to eavesdrop.

And the food was _great_.

John had finished his own hamburger already. He sprawled lazily in the booth opposite Detective Carter and watched her eat.

“Did Taylor eat all the food at home?” he asked. “You look like you've been starved.”

“Ha-ha.” She pointed at him. “ _You_ ate even faster than I did. I like to actually taste what I'm eating, y'know?” She popped the last bit of cheeseburger into her mouth and chewed, savoring the flavor of the grill-seared mushrooms.

She swallowed, settled back with a sigh, and said, “We gotta come here more often.”

“Yes, we should,” John said, smiling—a true smile, the kind that only Jocelyn Carter could coax out of him. He picked up his water glass, took a sip. “Especially when we have reason to celebrate. Elizabeth Ruben is safe and sound tonight. And I didn't shoot anybody. Not a single person.”

Carter shook her head. “She's safe, but I dunno about sound. Getting locked up in a cargo container and left to die? That's not the kind of thing you just up and walk away from. She's gonna have a few demons to fight.”

“It's better than being dead,” Reese said.

“Well, I've known a couple of people who've offed themselves from less traumatic experiences.”

“Finch and I will check in on her from time to time,” Reese said, nodding. “But I think she'll pull through.”

“I just hope she's not too pig-headed to call somebody when she needs it.” She sighed, clenched her fists. “God, when I find Tara Dodson...”

“Ah,” Reese said. His face lit up with a look of mischief. “That reminds me.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a business card and pen, scrawled something on the back of the card, and handed it to Carter. “Here's an address you might want to check out.”

Carter looked dubiously at the card. “And what will I find there, John?”

“You'll see. But, you can take your time. A few hours won't hurt. Probably should go there before tomorrow afternoon though. The forecast for tomorrow is looking very hot.”

Carter's eyes narrowed. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He smirked and slid out of the booth, tossing a couple of $20 bills onto the table. “Gotta go,” he said. “Thanks for lunch, Joss. We really should do this more often.”

“Wait—John! John, come back here!”

 

#####

 

I spent most of the day on the couch. I got up twice; once to use the bathroom and once to find something to eat. I didn't have the energy to do much else, but I was afraid to fall asleep.

John had been right about the nightmares.

So I stayed in the living room, curled up on the couch beneath a thin yellow blanket. I hadn't bothered to put on more than the nightgown Detective Carter had bought me. The TV was on with the volume down low, but I wasn't really watching. I was just...existing. Trying not to fall asleep. Trying not to think.

From time to time, my body shuddered, but I wasn't cold.

Late that afternoon, I was startled by the ringing of the phone. I didn't want to answer it, at least, not until the answering machine beeped.

“Elizabeth Ruben?” Detective Carter's voice filled the living room, distorted by the tiny speaker on the answering machine. “You there? It's Detective Carter, from the 8th precinct—”

I forced myself upright. My bare feet swung down to the carpet and a second later I was standing. I stumbled to the phone. Nearly dropped the handset.

“H-hello?” I said.

“Elizabeth?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it's me.”

“Hey, hun, I thought you'd want to hear this sooner rather than later. We arrested Tara Dodson this afternoon.”

I blinked. “Really? Already?”

“Yeah. It gets better. She confessed to kidnapping, assault, attempted murder...she's goin' to prison.”

My knees quaked. I leaned against the wall to steady myself.

“For real?” I said. “Like, for sure?”

“For real,” Detective Carter said. “She won't be able to hurt you or anybody else again, Elizabeth.”

“And—and she can't—she won't get acquitted, or anything?”

“There won't be a trial. She made a deal. Fifteen years. From what I understand, that's about a year for each hour you were in that breadbox.”

“Oh my god,” I breathed. “That's—that's great.”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “I thought you'd like to hear that.”

“Thank you for letting me know,” I said. “I wasn't really expecting her to...get caught. Thought she was going to get away with it.”

“'S my pleasure.” For a second, there was static on the line, then she said, “You sure you're all right, hun? You went through a lot.”

“I'm fine,” I said.

“Well, you've got my card. Like I said—you ever need anything—“

“I'll call you,” I finished, glancing at the kitchen table, where I had left the card. “Thank you, Detective Carter.”

We exchanged pleasantries and hung up.

I made my unsteady way back to the couch. Sat down. I was pretty sure I should've been elated, but it was tempered by a dull sense of emptiness. I mean, I was glad that Tara had been arrested, but right now, I didn't really want to think about her at all.

I curled back up on the couch and watched TV until I dozed off.

 

#####

 

Miles away, sitting before a bank of computer monitors in a decrepit library, Harold Finch said, “Detective Carter sounded quite cross with you, John.”

Reese shrugged. “I figured.”

“Mr. Reese, precisely what did you do to Tara Dodson?”

“You don't want to know. But it was nothing less than she deserved, if that makes you feel better.”

“It _really_ doesn't.”

“At least I let her keep her clothes. It was more than she did for Elizabeth Ruben.”

Finch gave Reese a long, hard look and turned back to his computers.

“You're right,” he muttered. “I don't want to know.”

 

#####


	16. Chapter 16

**October 2011**

 

#####

 

It was cold outside. The news anchors had promised everybody rain; what we got was a moody overcast sky that couldn't make up its mind if it wanted to cry or not. It had sputtered moisture in little fits off and on throughout the morning, dampening the layer of fallen autumn leaves that the landscapers hadn't raked up from the grass yet.

My bedroom was a little island of warmth and happiness. I had most of the computers running, and even with their relatively light workload they managed to raise the temperature of the room by several degrees. Hadn't even needed to switch on the furnace this morning; the room was cozy enough for me to program in my knickers. Sure, the rest of the apartment was on the cold side, but that's what the bathrobe and slippers were for.

I was warm, I had cookies, I had tea—life was good.

There were main windows up on my monitors: the left screen had my programming tools and the right screen displayed my chat client, which was connected to the Freenode IRC network. I occasionally idled in a few of my favorite channels—##networking and ##security for starters, as well as #opensuse and ##encryption. Some of the channel regulars had an encyclopedic knowledge of even the most esoteric computing topics, and if I was stuck on a project, they could often point me in the right direction. Occasionally, a newcomer would enter a channel and ask a question that I could answer, or more rarely, a user would join and start trolling for trouble. If they did it at the right time—just after the chan ops in the US had detached for the night but before the ops in Europe woke up, leaving no one to kickban the troublemakers—they often got a flame war going.

And those were _so_ entertaining.

But alas, the channels were unusually quiet this morning, so I concentrated on my current project—implementing my cryptographic hash function into a forked version of OpenVPN. It was going well. I had already inserted most of my source code last night; now all I had to do was tell the compiler and linker to include the new files when building the project. After that, I could test the changes. I already had two computers set aside on an isolated network to use as guinea pigs. An old monitor and keyboard, both connected to the nearer of the two computers, sat atop a wobbly TV tray to my right.

I configured the compiler to include my new source files, then ran a test compile. It returned an error. I crossed my ankles and leaned forward to squint at the output. Found the error. Fixed a typo. Recompiled the project. This time, it succeeded.

 _Hah_! I thought, wiggling my feet. _Take that_.

Even better, OpenVPN obediently showed the new hash function when I told it to list all the ciphers and hashes it knew about. Now all I had to do was build the software for the test machines and transfer it over with a few bare-bones configuration files...

An icon began to flash on my chat client—I had a new private message. Excited, I opened the query window. There weren't many who chatted one-on-one with me, and if it was who I thought it was...

 _Yes! It's him_!

_ <Corvus> Good morning, m'dear._

Smiling, I typed in a message, pressed enter.

_ < elev> And hello to you too! What are you doing this morning?_

_< Corvus > Oh, the usual. Programming. Saving the world. Curing cancer. Furthering humankind._

_ < Corvus> How goes your VPN project? You seemed quite optimistic about your progress last night..._

_ < elev> I just finished a debug compile. The new hash is in. Gonna transfer it over to the test boxes now._

I used rsync to copy the entire source tree over to a flash drive, plugged it in to one of the computers. Spun the chair ninety degrees to face the temporary keyboard, logged in to the computer as root, mounted the flash drive, copied the files to the hard drive, and then used the isolated network to copy them to the other computer as well. I set up the configuration files. Adjusted the firewalls. Started a network sniffer on each end. As I worked, I kept an eye on the chat window.

_ < Corvus> Don't forget to specify your new hash function in the configuration files._

_ < elev> I won't. I wasn't born yesterday, you know. :)_

_ < Corvus> It would be quite amazing if you had been. You would be a very skilled young baby._

I chuckled, typed a response.

_ < elev> Are you suggesting that I'm not amazing the way I am? *huffs* :|_

_ < Corvus> Of course not, m'dear. I wouldn't dream of it!_

Grinning, I typed in a few last commands.

_ < elev> It's ready. I've made my ritual sacrifices of cookies and tea to the computer goddess for mercy. Fingers crossed?_

_ < Corvus> Of course._

_ < elev> Here goes._

I started the daemon on one computer and was relieved to see that it didn't crash. It opened a network tunnel device and waited for a connection.

Logging in remotely to the other computer, I started its daemon as well. Crossed my fingers. Toes too. Nothing crashed.

_ < elev> So far, so good. Got IP addresses on each endpoint, so the control stream is working at least. Let's try pinging it..._

On one of the computers, I typed in a simple command: **ping 10.0.2.1**

Before I had time to even hold my breath, the results began to appear on the screen.

_PING 10.0.2.1 (10.0.2.1) 56(84) bytes of data._

_64 bytes from 10.0.2.1: icmp_seq=1 ttl=64 time=2.12 ms_

_64 bytes from 10.0.2.1: icmp_seq=2 ttl=64 time=1.99 ms_

_64 bytes from 10.0.2.1: icmp_seq=3 ttl=64 time=2.17 ms_

“Yes!” I shouted, raising my fist in triumph.

_< elev > It WORKS!!!_

_ < Corvus> I had no doubt it would! _

_ < elev> Gonna make a patch right now and upload it to my website. _

_ < Corvus> I look forward to seeing your code. I have sought a stronger hash function in OpenVPN for quite some time._

_ < elev> Yeah, you and half the userbase. I hope the devs accept the patch._

_ < Corvus> Oh, I am quite confident that they will. Your GRAY2 hash function has attracted quite a lot of positive attention from the security community. It will be a most welcome addition to OpenVPN, I'm certain._

_ < elev> You really think so?_

Before he could respond, my cell phone rang.

_< elev > brb phone_

The number on the phone was blocked; an unknown caller. Curious. I didn't exactly get a lot of phone calls, especially not from blocked numbers. Accepting the call, I raised the phone to my ear and said, “Hello?”

“Good morning, Elizabeth.” God, I'd have recognized that sultry voice anywhere. Could this day possibly get any better?

“Hey, John,” I said.

“I promised you I'd teach you how to defend yourself sometime. Gotham City doesn't need me at the moment. Are you free this afternoon?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am. Where do you want to meet?”

“There's a nice gym downtown.” He gave me an address; I scrawled it down on a legal pad covered in doodles and half-baked ideas.

He said, “Bring loose clothing. You're going to be moving around a lot. We'll be indoors.”

“Okay. See you there at noon.”

I hung up and returned my attention to the computer.

_< elev > Hey, sorry, something just came up...I gotta go for awhile. Chat more another time?_

_ < Corvus> Of course, m'dear. Congratulations on your successful project._

_ < elev> Thanks! Talk with you later._

_ < Corvus> A pleasure speaking with you, as always. Be wise, m'dear._

_* elev &_

_-!- elev [elizabeth @ 12-4-22-251-static. fios. ift. com] has left [Quit: client quit]_

#####

 

I dressed for warmth: knee-length green dress, gray wool cardigan, thick black tights, and a pair of flat black Mary Janes. I dug my gym bag out of the back of the closet. Into the bag I threw a pair of navy blue shorts, a sports bra, a tank top, and my running sneakers. I grabbed the umbrella at the last moment, swung the gym bag over my shoulder, and headed out to the car.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the gym parking lot, right as the sky decided that it wanted to pour. Unfurling the umbrella—score one for foresight—I made my way into the building.The glass front doors swung shut behind me, cutting out the hiss of the falling rain.

The reception area was sparse, yet inviting. Warm golden light shone from recessed fixtures in the floor and ceiling, splashing against the light wooden wall panels and the indoor garden set off to the side. Little yellow spotlights lit up the underside of the leafy grove. The entryway floor was brown stone tile—rough, natural. This was a pretty high-end gym; even an exercise-hating geek like me could tell. The faintest scent of sweat and chlorine floated through the air, but it wasn't nearly strong enough to be offensive.

I didn't see anybody around but for the tall, blond-haired man at the curved reception desk. He looked up when I approached, smiled, and said, “Mr. Rooney is waiting for you, Miss Ruben.”

 _Mr. Rooney?_ I wondered. _John_? _Some sort of fake name?_ _What the hell kind of last name is_ Rooney _? Sounds like a serial killer._

The receptionist led me to an expansive carpeted room. Most of the floor was covered by bright blue exercise mats. One entire wall was given up to mirrors. There were several black padded benches along the perimeter of the room and John was sitting on one of them. He was wearing—he was wearing—my God, I hadn't known he even owned any other clothes besides his suits. Today, John Reese was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of shorts, both in black. His feet were bare.

He had _really_ nice arms, I noticed. And legs. And feet. It figured. I would've bet that his entire physique was as muscled and crafted as those arms and legs and feet. I mean, come on, it was _John_.

The receptionist pointed out the changing rooms and said, “You have the place to yourselves. Please let me know if you need anything.” He nodded and walked out of the room.

The corners of John's mouth twitched when I approached. I had a sarcastic remark about “Mr. Rooney” all lined up and loaded in the torpedo tubes, but he got his salvo out first.

“Hey little girl,” he said, all innocence. “Want some candy?”

“Only if it's chocolate,” I said, setting the gym bag on the floor and sitting next to him. I raised my eyebrows. “'Little girl'?”

“You look kinda like a schoolgirl,” he said.

I sputtered. “A _schoolgirl_?”

“Yeah. It's the clothes. It's an advantage—nobody's going to think you can take them out. They won't think you're a danger. You have the element of the unexpected.”

I narrowed my eyes, picked up the gym bag, and said, “Gee. Thanks. I'm going to go change into something suitable for kicking your ass now.”

The womens' changing room was decorated in the same stone tile as the building entryway. The tiles covered the floor and went halfway up the walls. The sink and shower fixtures were all brass and everything was lit by those recessed light fixtures. I changed into the shorts and tank top and put my feet into the sneakers just long enough to walk out to the carpeted room—Mama had always been funny about bare feet around public pools, showers, and the like.

John was standing calmly on the mat, about ten feet away from the nearest edge. He looked relaxed, at ease, but the little half-grin was tugging at his mouth. I slipped off the shoes and stepped onto the mat, not sure what to expect.

“Let's get right into it,” John said. “I want to know what you know about fighting.”

“Not a whole lot,” I said. “I'm not really the fighting type, you know?”

“Right.” I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “Show me what you don't know. Stand a few feet away from me.”

I did.

“Okay,” said John. He tilted his head, grinned. “Come at me.”

“What?”

“Come on, Ellie.” I twitched. First the schoolgirl comment, now with the nickname again? “Kick my ass. I know you want to. I guarantee that you can't hurt me.”

“You sure about that? I'll have you know, my Mama had a purple belt in karate.”

“Well, Ellie,” he said, “show me what you've got.” The grin widened. I realized what he was doing—he was getting me all riled up, starting from the moment I'd first walked into the room.

 _That sneaky bastard_ , I thought.

Well. If that's what he wanted...

I considered, then I sprang into motion, darting forward as fast as I could. I aimed my fist for his face and my knee for his crotch, but neither met their mark. I wasn't sure exactly what happened. One moment my fist was sailing towards that smirk and the next moment I was staring up at the wood panels on the ceiling while John stood over me. I had no idea how I'd ended up with my back to the mat.

“It must not run in the family,” John said.

“Shut up.”

“It wasn't too bad,” he said, tilting his head. There was approval in his voice. “Naive, predictable. But not bad. You tried fighting dirty right away. You would've stunned an unprepared assailant long enough to slip away, especially dressed like you were before.” He held out his hand, helped me up, stood a few feet away. “I was worried you'd be all gentlemanly about this.”

“Well, _John_ ,” I said. “I don't know if you noticed, but I'm a _woman_ , not a gentleman.” I ran at him a second time, hoping to introduce my knee to his gonads with the element of surprise, but I found myself studying the ceiling again a moment later.

“Lesson number one,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Many male assailants protect their groin with padding or armor beneath their clothes. You can't count on it as a vulnerable spot.” The smile quirked. “But in an emergency, you can always try.” He helped me up again and said, “Let's go over what's happening in slow motion...”

 

#####

 

An hour and a half later, I had learned two things:

One, all the things I'd thought I'd known about fighting were wrong.

Two, I was _so_ out of shape.

“Your stamina needs work,” John said lightly. He wasn't even breathing hard. _I_ was hunched over, my hands on my knees as I panted like mad to catch my breath. “How often do you exercise?”

I couldn't help but snark. “You—saying—I'm—fat?”

“I'll just say you have a well-rounded personality.” He shook his head. “No, not fat, but you need to be more active. Your body isn't used to prolonged physical activity.”

“Yeah—can see that.”

“How often do you exercise?” he asked again.

“Uh—I plead the fifth? ”

“Thought so. You need to get out of that desk chair more often, Ellie. Jog around the neighborhood, maybe. Go on hikes. Swim at the local pool. Roller skate in the park. They're all good ways to get moving. Walking to the refrigerator and back for a cookie doesn't count.”

I frowned. “How'd you know I do that?”

“I'm observant.”

“Uh-huh.”

John glanced up at the clock on the wall and said, “I think we should stop here for the day, Ellie.”

“Come on,” I said. “I can go longer.”

“You fell like it now, but you'll regret it later. Trust me.”

“Fine,” I said, disappointed.

I went back into the changing room to don my “schoolgirl” outfit. (I _so_ was going to knock John's ass to the mat someday for that comment.) A few minutes later, John came out of the mens' room wearing his usual suit. He held a large black umbrella in one hand. Together, we made our way to the gym entryway. Beyond the glass doors, the rain came down in waves of foggy gray.

“Same time next week?” John said. “If the Joker doesn't poison the water supply or anything, of course.”

“Sure,” I said. “I'd love it.”

He waved good-bye to the attendant at the desk and we headed outside. He opened his umbrella as we passed through the doors and raised it over our heads.

“I'll walk you to your car,” he said. “Wouldn't want your hair to curl.”

“Shut up,” I said, laughing.

When we reached the car, we exchanged goodbyes. John waited until I was safely inside before he ambled off through the parking lot. I watched him walk between two cars and then he was gone. Like a ninja.

Sighing, I started the engine and drove home. I was going to be sore tonight, I could tell already...

 

#####


	17. Chapter 17

**November 2011**

John was four feet away. I blinked, and John was in my face, giving me hardly any time at all to deflect the punch.

I stumbled backwards, tripped over my own feet. Landed flat on my back, knocking the breath out of my body with a soft _oomph!_ Yet again, I was greeting with a very familiar sight: the exercise-room ceiling. After three weeks of self-defense lessons at the gym, I had become intimately familiar with that ceiling. I could've probably drawn a picture of it from memory. The staggered, narrow wood panels, the fire sprinklers, the recessed lights, the smoke detectors...

“Not again,” I said, propping myself up with my arms.

“Don't feel bad, Ellie,” said John. He offered his hand and helped me to my feet. “Your defensive tactics have improved a lot.”

“Should've stuck with beer bottles,” I grumbled.

“You know enough now to get you out of a pinch,” he said.

“Yeah. Poke someone in the eye. Best plan ever.”

“If you can get to their face, it works pretty well.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

“Let's try again,” John said. “We'll go slower this time.”

I nodded, settled into a defensive stance. John's fist sailed towards my chest. This time, the movement was slow, exaggerated, giving me plenty of time to block or duck away. I pushed his arm to the side.

“Good,” he said, sounding unflappably calm even as his body leaned close towards mine. “Throw me off balance.”

Grabbing his outstretched arm with both hands—God, I could _feel_ his muscles ripple beneath my hands—I pulled him forward, shifting part of my weight to my right foot, which was behind and to the side of my left foot. When it came to balance, my bow-legged stance gave me a clear advantage over John, who had foolishly thrown all of his weight forward. His center of gravity moved further ahead of his body until it passed the point where he began to topple. He faltered, and when he did, I shoved him backward, releasing my hold. He tripped, recovered, then retreated several feet away.

“Good, Ellie,” he said. “What would you have done if I had been moving faster?”

“I would've used your momentum,” I said. “Pushed you behind me.”

“Let's try it. Smooth the movements out.”

This time, he built up a little speed, and the punch came a little faster, but still not as fast as the first time. I knocked his arm to the side, grabbed it, and this time I let my body move on its own, pulling John around until he was stumbling away behind me. He regained his balanced with his usual flawless grace—I was pretty sure the stumbles were just for show—and turned to face me, still looking like he was just out for a casual morning walk.

In his T-shirt. And shorts. And nothing else.

“Very good,” he said. “Once you have their arm—if you can grab it safely—there are a lot of useful things you can do. Armlocks are good for subduing someone. Or, if you're quick, you can break their arm....”

I made a face at that. John shrugged.

“You should know these things in a life-or-death situation, Ellie. It doesn't take much strength to break somebody's arm if you do it right. I'll show you how later. Now, let's review your stance—it was a little sloppy just now...”

We practice for another hour. I ended up on my rump six or seven more times: once from one of John's demonstrations, the other times, from my own damn feet getting in the way.

There was a reason I'd never danced in high school...

 

 

#####

 

 

John and I met two, three, even four times a week at that fancy gym off 44th street. His whole saving-the-world schedule made our meetings unpredictable. We preferred meeting on Saturday or Sunday whenever possible, but Gotham City was quite the crime-ridden slum during the weekend, so we often met during the work week instead, usually in the afternoons just after I left Landis or the 94th street library.

For the first time ever, I found myself clocking out from the Landis offices at _precisely_ 5PM, rather than staying “just a few more minutes” to squash bugs or write a response to an issue ticket. Or two. Or ten.

Don't get me wrong, I still enjoyed my work at Landis—but I had something more worthy to do with my precious second chance at life, something far more important than fixing other peoples' mistakes in some router firmware. I had a purpose now; an opportunity to _really_ make a difference in the world. John was teaching me how to protect myself, and by extension, how to protect other people. Innocent, unwary people. Like the person I'd been before Tara Dodson had tazed me in the back alley at the Landis building.

Even on the days John and I couldn't meet, I still went home as soon as possible, either to practice the warm-up moves John had taught me or to exercise. All sarcasm aside, I really _was_ out of shape. I'd never really paid attention to my fitness in the past, but that had been before Batman had taken me under his wings. Cape. Whatever.

The day after our first session at the gym, I went out to jog. There was a small park adjacent to the apartment complex, with lots of rolling hills and a cement path that wound between and over them, passing through a grove of massive oak trees. I figured the park was as good of a place to start as any. So I put on my sweatpants and a sweater and donned the blue-and-black sneakers that I'd worn _maybe_ five times since I'd bought them. I headed out the door. The sky was a ruffled layer of gray overcast—there would be no rain today, or so the news anchors claimed—and the world was washed out, desaturated, cold.

I had this crazy notion that I was going to jog around the park a dozen times or so, up and down all the little hills, but halfway into the first loop I was already winded. By the time I made a full circuit, I was exhausted. My leg muscles burned and I couldn't get enough oxygen into my frozen lungs. I stopped and leaned against a lamppost. My breath turned to fog as I panted.

 _He's right, damn him_ , I thought. _Stamina? What stamina? I don't_ have _any damn stamina._

Once I caught my breath, I started running again, a little slower this time. All right, so twelve laps had been optimistic. I'd settle for six.

Okay, five.

Maybe four...

I made another lap, took a different fork in the path this time. Had to stop again to catch my breath at a park bench. I was surprised to find that I was overheating beneath the sweater. I pulled it over my head, tied it around my waist, leaving me with just the tank top protecting my torso against the chill. The air bit at my bare arms. It felt good, especially when I started moving again.

 _Okay, Mama._ _Maybe,_ maybe _you're right about me needing to get out and about more often_. Maybe. _But you're still wrong about the Allman Brothers!_

I ended up making five laps before I threw in the towel, staggering back to the apartment. I was exhausted, yet at the same time, I felt a peculiar sense of energy and contentment.

The next afternoon, I went to the park after a long, long shift at the 94th street library. It was a little warmer today and the sun deigned to peak out from behind the clouds every now and then. I was hoping to get further than yesterday, maybe six laps, but at the same time, I knew that pushing myself too hard could be disastrous. So I went slow. Rested every few park benches. I didn't care if it took me all afternoon to go six laps.

Turns out I made seven.

And so it went for about two weeks. The next time I met with John, I told him what I was doing to stay active, and he nodded thoughtfully.

“That's good,” he said, and then we spent the next few hours going over defensive moves and by the end of it I was all out of breath.

John barely even broke a sweat.

Damn Bruce Wayne.

 

#####

 

One cold Saturday morning, after eating a quick breakfast of instant oatmeal, I padded to my bedroom and searched the closet for something more suitable for jogging than the long nightgown I was wearing. While sliding the hangers around, I happened to glance up to the shelf above my hands, and there I saw a little patch of black and pink behind a stack of old CD jewel cases. Curious, I slid them aside and saw my old pair of roller skates lurking behind them.

 _You used to love roller skating,_ I thought to myself.

I stood on tip-toes, reached up, took the skates down from the shelf. They were heavier than I remembered and they looked like the kind of skates a little kid would wear: bright pink quad wheels mounted to chunky, low-cut black sneakers. The skates were decorated with pink and white accents. I dusted them off. Spun the wheels with my fingers. They still moved easily.

_What the hell. They count as exercise. John even said so._

I found the knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist guards in one of the boxes in the closet (I was going to unpack those boxes some day, really I was) but couldn't find my helmet anywhere. No big deal. The only times I'd ever fallen on while skates had invariably been the times when Gray had run into me because he'd never been able to skate worth beans.

Shedding my nightgown, I dressed quickly—black tights, blue dress, and a warm sweater. I sat down on the bed. Fastened the plastic guards around my knees, elbows, and wrists. Then, one at a time, I put my feet into the skates and bent forward to lace them up. The skates were a little on the tight side, but that was better than them being too loose.

I stood. With the protective gear around my knees and elbows, I felt as padded as the Michelin Man. The skates didn't do much rolling on the carpet, so I made my careful way out to the kitchen. I paused at the threshold between the carpet and the linoleum and thought, _All right, Ellie. Let's see how well you can skate after all these years._

Turns out, after a few wobbly false starts, I did pretty well. Skating was like riding a bike. After five minutes, I found that the kitchen was much too small to contain me, so I decided to head for the park. I skated the whole way there from my front door, feeling freer than I had in eons. This beat the pants out of jogging. Hell, skating was _way_ more fun that I'd remembered. A rough, cracked asphalt driveway in the mountains of Colorado was nothing compared to the silky smooth sidewalks of New York. I could go so much faster than I'd ever been able to go back at the mountain house. Here, it felt like I was gliding.

I'd made maybe four circuits around and through the park when I spotted John walking near one of the lampposts. He was wearing an ominous dark overcoat and his hands were buried deep inside his pockets to ward off the December cold.

Putting one foot back, I dragged the toe stop against the ground to slow myself.

“Where's your helmet, little girl?” John asked as I skidded to a stop in front of him.

I crossed my arms and tilted my head. “Really?” I said. “You're gonna start on that today?” I couldn't help but notice that those mysterious, vivid blue eyes of his seemed a little closer than usual; the skate wheels gave me an extra inch or two of height.

He said, “Think of it as a disguise, Ellie. People see an innocent young girl, they don't see a danger. You're not a threat.”

“Sure. No danger.” I poked him in the chest. “You remember that when I get your ass on the mat one of these days.”

“I'm sure I will,” he said. The corner of his mouth rose. “One of these days.” He glanced around and said, “How'd you like to go on a field trip today?”

“A 'field trip?'” I rolled one foot back and forth, tried to hide my excitement. “Where are we going? Is it another haxpedition?”

“You could say that.”

“That sounds vague.”

“It did, didn't it?”

“You're not going to tell me, are you?”

“It's a surprise, Ellie. I don't want to spoil it.”

“Well, c'mon, let's go! I've been _dying_ to do something fun lately. But I need to get some shoes first. Unless you want me skating everywhere?”

John tilted his head towards my apartment. I shifted my weight, started rolling again, and just when I'd gotten back up to walking speed, I hit a rock on the sidewalk. Hell, it wasn't even a rock. It was a pebble—but it was enough to stop my skate wheels cold. My foot halted like it'd been glued in place, but the rest of my body didn't.

 _Aww, shit_ , I thought. My arms windmilled as the concrete rushed up to say hello to my face. But before I could fall too far, John caught my arm, swung my body around. I suddenly found myself pressed face-first up against his chest, pinned against his body by his arms. Gasping, I craned my neck to look up at his face.

He looked down, raised his eyebrows, and said, “This is why you should wear a helmet, Ellie.”

If he hadn't been holding me so tight, my feet probably would've gone right out from under my body. I felt warm, very warm, and the blood was rushing to my face.

“Couldn't find my helmet,” I mumbled.

“I'll buy you one. What do you think, Ellie? Pink, with little white flowers on it? White, with Hello Kitty decals?”

“Don't you dare,” I said. I chewed my lip. “Make it plain black or dark blue, and I'll forget you called me a little girl today.”

“Deal,” John said, chuckling. He released me, but kept his hand on my shoulder all the way back to the apartment.

 

#####

 

I had to wonder where John kept getting these different cars. I mean, he had a different one every time I saw him. Either he owned a used car dealership lot or he was really rough on his automobiles. This particular one was light blue; an old Honda with a cross hanging from the rearview mirror.

John had never really struck me as a religious man...

“This isn't your car, is it?” I asked.

“Is it that obvious?” he said.

“Do I want to know whose car this is?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know if I want to know or you don't know whose car this is?”

John glanced at me, smiled, but said nothing. It figured. It just figured.

“I hope you give it back in one piece,” I said, shaking my head in amazement.

“I do try...”

After about thirty minutes of driving, John pulled the car into an aging lot squeezed between two crumbling brick warehouses. He parked the car, pushed open the door, got out. I did the same. Looked around. Weeds grew up from cracks in the buckled asphalt and half the panes were missing from the tall windows in the brick walls. An obese weatherproof security camera hung from the side of one of the buildings. The fence protecting the lot was topped by barbed wire, but the gate had been torn away and was lying flat on the ground next to a dumpster.

Nobody was around.

“Okay,” I said. “Where are we?”

“At a creepy old warehouse,” John said. He headed towards an exterior metal door set in the wall of the nearer of the two warehouses. The door was right in the middle of the camera's field of view.

John stopped next to the door and motioned towards it.

“You're not going to open it?” I said.

“You can have the honors, Ellie,” he said.

Suspicious, I reached for the doorknob. Turned it.

It was locked.

“It's locked,” I said.

“Oh no,” John said, sounding a little too happy about it. “And I left my key at home.”

“You have a key to a creepy old warehouse?”

“No,” he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a little leather case, slightly smaller than a paperback novel. He handed it to me. Wary, I opened it. Inside were a bunch of little thin tools, like dental picks.

“What are these?” I asked.

“That is a lockpicking kit, Ellie.”

“A _what_?” I snapped it shut.

“It's now _your_ lockbreaking kit. A good one.”

“You're really going to teach me how to pick a lock?” I looked past his shoulder, straight into the dark lens of the security camera. The unusual size of the camera made it look even more ominous. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “In plain view of the camera?”

John turned around, looked right at the camera, and waved.

“The hell are you doing?” I hissed.

“It doesn't mind us, Ellie,” John said. “Now, do you want to know how to pick a lock or not? If you're uncomfortable, I can take you back to your apartment.”

My fingers shook as I worked the clasp on the case again and slowly opened it. Hell yes, I wanted to know how to pick a lock—but doing it while a camera watched? That was more than a little creepy...

“I'll demonstrate first,” John said. He picked up two of the lockpicks and inserted them into the lock. “Watch closely. I'll explain what I'm doing the second time—then you can try it...”

He had the door opened in less than ten seconds.

“Right,” I said, as it squeaked open a crack. “That totally made things clear for me. I know everything there is to know about lockpicking now. Thanks, John.”

He ignored my sarcasm, reached around for the inside door knob, locked it, and closed the door again. This time, he showed me how he was placing the picks.

“Do you know how a lock works, Ellie?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “The key forces the pins into alignment with the barrel so it can turn. Each pin is split at a different place, and when the key goes in, the ridges and valleys push against the pins and make the splits all line up.”

“Close enough. This is a very cheap lock—good for us to practice. What I'm doing is called raking. Now, the tension wrench twists the barrel a little, which makes a little ledge for the pins to catch on. If the upper part of a pin is raised high enough, it will clear the barrel. Raking will force most or all of the pins up at once if we're lucky. Watch.”

I watched. John moved slower, but it still took him less than a minute to open the door. He locked it again. Then he handed me the squiggly pick and the tension wrench. I set the case down and held them, gingerly, like they were red-hot.

“Don't rush,” he said. “If you don't get it today, we can always come back tomorrow.”

I glanced at the camera again, gulped, stuck the tension wrench in the slot, applied torque, and tried picking the lock. I must've worked at the damn lock for at least five minutes. I concluded that raking was some trick of the wrist or something, because I didn't seem to be able to do it no matter how many times I tried.

“What happens if raking doesn't work?” I said.

“Then you have to pick each pin individually. Raking usually gets most of them in place, but there's often a straggler or two...” He reached down to the case and brought out another tool. “Keep up on the tension,” he said. He gently took the first pick from my hand and inserted the new pick into the lock. “Listen carefully. You can hear the pins when they slide past the ledge.”

I put my ear to the door and watched John carefully move the pick. Sure enough, a second later, I heard the faintest _click_.

“That's one,” John said. “Now, there might be another one...that was the one in the front, so try the other ones.” He handed me the pick. My hand shook as I inserted it into the lock and started feeling around for the pins, poking at them one at a time.

When the lock finally turned, I very nearly dropped the wrench and pick out of surprise.

“Congratulations,” John said, opening the door wide. “If I hadn't OK'd this with the guy who owns this property, you'd have just committed your first B&E.” John tilted his head. “Ellie? Are you alright? What's wrong?”

My eyes were fixed on the narrow corridor behind the door. The lights were off, and the hallway was dark, and I mean _dark_ , like pitch black, and it looked like the shadows were oozing towards me, reaching with dark tendrils. My heart began to thud against my ribs. My knees wobbled. I felt very ill.

John looked at me, then the hallway, then made a silent “ah” of realization. He reached inside the doorway and clicked a switch. Old florescent light fixtures kicked on, flickering orange, then white.

“Sorry, Ellie,” John said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I hadn't thought about that.”

“S'ok,” I said. “It was just—sudden.” I took a deep breath. Another one. Reached down and picked up the lockpicks, put them neatly back in the case. “So what's inside?”

“More locks,” he said. “A whole building filled with lots of cheap, easily-picked locks. Different brands too, just to shake things up. If you're in the mood, of course.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I want to try it again.”

But I made him go inside first—and I wouldn't let him close the door behind us.

 

#####

 

The next morning, I opened my front door to find a cardboard box, about a foot square, on the doormat. I took the box inside, set it on the table. Fished a pair of scissors out of the kitchen drawer and used them to cut the tape. Reached into the packing peanuts. My fingers met something hard, and I pulled it out.

I laughed.

Inside the box was a skating helmet. The surface was shiny, dark navy plastic—but there were little styled cat faces stenciled all over the thing in delicate white lines. Obscenely _cute_ cat faces.

“John, John, John,” I sighed, shaking my head.

But I wore the helmet anyway.

 

#####


	18. Chapter 18

**November 2011**

  

I came home after work on Wednesday to find another cardboard box on my doormat. This one rattled when I shook it and was heavy, as though it was filled with something metal. There was no label. I hefted the box, balanced it on my hip, unlocked my front door, and stepped inside my apartment.

I wasn't too surprised to find a certain handsome man sitting brazenly on my couch.

“Hi, John,” I said, closing the door behind me. “Testing my door lock again?”

“Yes,” he said. “You should really get a better one, Ellie. Even you could pick your front door.”

“Great. If I ever forget my key, I'll be able to get back inside in no time.” I set the box on the dining room table with a solid _thump._ Bent down, unbuckled my shoes, slipped them off. Wiggled my toes. “So what'd you get me this time?” I shook the box again. “It'd better not be covered in cute kitty faces like the helmet.”

“The helmet suits you, Ellie,” he said. “You look like a cat person.”

“First a schoolgirl, now a cat person?” I rolled my eyes. “Mama and I had a shoe-loving German Shepard when I was growing up, thank you very much.” I fetched the scissors, sat down at the table, and sliced through the tape on the box. When I saw what was inside, I broke out laughing.

The box was filled with old door knobs and locks.

I said, “You have the weirdest sense of humor, you know that?”

“I've been told as much,” John said. He stood and made his way over to the table. Sat next to me. He reached out and pulled the box a little ways towards him. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About the kinds of consequences you'd have to face if you were caught doing some of the things we've been doing.”

I put my hands on my hips. “John, we've already gone over this. I don't care about getting caught. I should be dead right now.”

“You shouldn't say that, Elizabeth.”

“I'll say it if I want to, and I wanna say it. I should be dead. Far as I'm concerned, I don't have a life to worry about anymore. I want to help other people, John. Like you do.”

“You won't be able to help people much if you get arrested for breaking in to somebody's place and hacking into their computer.” He pulled the box a little further away from me. “I want you to really think about it, Ellie. Know what you're getting into. How much can you help from a six by eight in Sing Sing?”

Annoyed, I snatched the heavy box right out of his hands, hugged it to my chest. “You're like the guy who wrote mIRC, you know that? You let me have all sorts of fun for a month or so, then you pop up a blocking dialog box and say, 'Sorry, I'm somehow still a poor developer even though millions of people use my software, so no more fun until you gimmie money or stare at this guilt-inducing message for fifteen seconds every single time you want to chat.'”

John looked confused.

“You've never used mIRC?” I asked him.

“No.”

“You need to get out more.”

“Actually, it sounds like I need to stay in more,” he said, eyes twinkling.

“Ha-ha. Look, really, John. I've thought about it. I've thought about it a lot ever since you brought it up at Landis. Sure, I hadn't realized that we were doing illegal things at first. But I know now. And I'm fine with it. You can't stop me. I'm a die-hard criminal, livin' in the 'hood.”

John's only response to that was a raised eyebrow. “You could be throwing your life away.”

“What life?” I scoffed. “I'm a geek. My Mama's the only family I have. Don't exactly have a lot of friends. What am I gonna do when I get older, anyway? Graduate, make a lot of money, settle down? Marry some asshole who wants my body and my money, pop out a bunch of bratty kids, have them all move away, die a lonely old lady with too many computers instead of too many cats?”

“The first third sounded like a good life.”

“Look, I'm helping you, and that's _final.”_

“Is it?” Damn that smirk!

“Yes. Yes, it is. If you don't let me help, I'll—I'll—I'll start following you around. I'll _stalk_ you everywhere. I'll help you whether you want me to or not.”

“You've graduated from breaking and entering to stalking? Already? I'm impressed, Ellie.”

“I learn fast.” Reaching into the box, I picked up one of the locks. It was a simple brass doorknob with a keyhole on one side and a thumb knob on the other. I waved it around. “I take it these are for practice?”

John shrugged. “Or home renovation. You really should replace that front lock. One of those should match your front door. Some of them are actually pretty good locks.”

“Uh-huh. So, we done talking about me going to jail, Mama?”

“For now.” He leaned forward. “If you really want to learn how to stalk someone, I can give you some advice. First: don't call it stalking. It's more socially acceptable to call it 'tailing'.”

“Since when are you concerned about social acceptability?”

“I'm not,” he said. “I just thought you might be.”

“Fair enough.”

“To tail someone, you have to follow close enough to avoid losing them, but you have to keep out of sight too. We'll have to practice one of these days, Ellie.”

He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, checked it, and said, “I gotta go. Appointment to catch.”

“Is it another case? Can I help?”

“Not a case,” he said, standing. He adjusted his suit jacket and walked towards the front door. “We'll meet up in a few days.”

“Hey, thanks for the, um, doorknobs,” I called.

“Have fun practicing,” he said. I heard the front door open, then close.

I chewed the inside of my lip, wondering if the idea that'd just popped into my head was wise.

 _What the hell,_ I thought. _Why not?_

I stood, walked to the door. Looked out the peephole. John had just reached the main sidewalk. He turned right and walked out of sight. I slid my stockinged feet into a pair of slippers lying in the entryway. Opened the door as quietly as I could, crept outside. I did my best to move all silent-like on the front walkway as I edged past the hedges and bushes planted along the wall. I poked my head out around the corner of the building, looked left and right.

John was nowhere to be seen. There was no one on the sidewalk.

 _How does he_ DO _that?_ I thought, irritated. _I just_ saw _him_.

There was a little slip of folded paper on the sidewalk about five feet away. Looking around, hoping to spot a glimpse of Batman's cape, I walked over and picked up the paper. Unfolded it.

It read, in very elegant handwriting: “Nice try, Elizabeth. -J”

_Damn him._

Sighing, I padded back to the apartment.

 

#####

 

 _This lock is a pain in the ass_ , I thought.

I was sitting at my desk, hunched forward in my chair. The doorknob was clamped in a little vice I'd bought for holding soldering projects back before I'd discovered that soldering was some secret, arcane art form that I just couldn't seem to master. The lockpicking kit lay open on my mousepad next to a plate of cookies. I licked my lips and wiggled my feet as I felt for the pins in the lock with one of the picks. The doorknob _looked_ cheap, but it seemed like this one wasn't going to give up as easily as the ones at the warehouse. I was about ready to toss it back to the box on the floor and choose another knob. It wasn't like there was any shortage.

 _Come on, come on_... _I've been at this thing for fifteen minutes_.

The icon flashed on my monitor right about the time I gave up on the lock. It was nearly ten o'clock at night. I pushed the picks off the mousepad, set the vice off to the side, pulled my keyboard closer, and brought up the IRC window. It was Corvus, responding to a message I had sent him a few hours prior.

_< Corvus > Really? I must say I'm surprised, m'dear. I would have thought that your interest and talent in computer security would have made penetration testing a natural career choice for you._

I smiled. Typed out a response.

_< elev > Yeah...I dunno. I'm good at all the theory stuff, you know? But actually breaking in to somebody's network...that's a little out of my league._

I wondered if Corvus lived somewhere in Europe or Asia. He only seemed to respond late at night, usually just before I went to bed. I had caught him online once in the middle of the day, but his responses had been delayed, and he had detached a half-hour later. I couldn't tell his location by his IP address, because it changed often. Tonight, it was based in New Zealand. The night before, it had been in Denmark...

_< Corvus > I have no doubt you would excel at penetration testing._

_ < elev> I did okay in the security countermeasures course at the University...the only reason blue team won was because my laptop overheated at a bad time. Freaking heatsink. I was almost into_ their network _._

_ < elev> IFT really flubbed the heatsink design on the I60 Thinkbook. There's a huge gap between the CPU and the copper heatsink and they just filled it with thermal goop._

_ < elev> And what idiot made the fan SLOW DOWN when the cooling mode was switched from passive to active? For heaven's sake, with throttling disabled, it needs more cooling, not less! /rant rant rant :(_

_ < Corvus> I discovered the same flaws in the I60 myself. I heard that the engineering team for that particular component of the laptop was never allowed to work on IFT's future Thinkbook models._

_ < elev> Serves them right. I had to modify the heatsink to get mine to work under heavy load. It's a good laptop besides that, but that's really a killer flaw._

_ < Corvus> What sort of modifications did you make?_

I glanced over at the little black laptop on my bed, thinking of all the times I'd taken it apart to get at the heatsink, then reassembled it to test it under load. I'd done it so often, some of the screws on the bottom were starting to strip.

_< elev > Copper shim, plus some thermal adhesive. A metal spacer between the mounting frame and the heatsink to force it against the CPU. I also took some copper sheeting and made my own heatsink for the southbridge chip._

_ < elev> I was worried that it would put too much pressure on the CPU, but it's held for two years._

_ < Corvus> Very impressive. Such ingenuity is hard to find nowadays._

_ < Corvus> I truly think you would excel at penetration testing. Your imaginative mind would find it quite interesting._

_ < elev> Flatterer. :) It's kinda hard to get into the field though...practicing on other peoples' systems is a no-no. You can get in big trouble if you get caught._

_ < Corvus> Very true._

I leaned back in my chair and thought of John, with all his warnings of doom and gloom about the consequences of getting caught hacking into somebody else's system. I found it ironic that I was chatting about the legality of penetration testing (which was distinguished from hacking by only the thinnest line) just hours after telling John that I was fine with being a criminal.

_< Corvus > I have a cluster of old servers I am not using. I could set them up as a sandbox for you, if you would like._

_ < elev> You mean, for me to hack?_

_ < Corvus> Yes. I think it would be a good way for you to get a feel for penetration testing. It would be a very good career for you, m'dear. An exciting, challenging outlet for your skills in a completely legal environment_.

I rolled my eyes. This guy sounded way too much like John. But I considered the offer and found that I rather liked the idea.

Maybe it would teach me a few tricks that would help me help John.

_< elev > Wow, I'd like that. But aren't you worried I might, I dunno, break in to the rest of your network? Use your boxes to send out spam or torrent a bunch of TV shows or download a ton of lesbian furry bondage porn?_

_ < Corvus> They are isolated machines, m'dear. Believe me, you will not be able to access any of my systems beyond the sandbox. But you are most welcome to try. As for using the machines to nefarious ends, I trust that you will utilize professional respect and common sense and use them only for educational purposes._

_ < elev> That's rather trusting. You don't even know me._

_ < Corvus> I know a surprising amount about you, m'dear. I highly doubt I'll see any requests to pornographic web sites in my firewall logs. I'll give you an IP address or two in a few minutes..._

I checked my email while I waited. Went out to the kitchen, heated a cup of tea. Added honey. When I returned to my desk with the steaming cup, there was a small backlog of messages on the chat window.

_ < Corvus> Here are two IP addresses for you to examine:_

_ < Corvus> 203.0.113.19 and 198.51.100.221_

_ < Corvus> If you have IPv6, you can also access them at 2001:db8::3 and 2001:db8::17_

_ < Corvus> These systems are yours to penetrate. I have deliberately introduced several vulnerabilities that should allow you to root them, although it take some creative thinking._

_ < Corvus> They'll be online for several weeks at the least, so you can take your time._

_ < Corvus> Have fun, m'dear._

I grinned, wrote the addresses down.

_< elev > This *does* sound fun! Thank you._

_ < Corvus> It is my pleasure, m'dear. I look forward to seeing your progress. If you get stuck, I can offer some hints...but not before a week or two of trying. You'll have to work for them._

_ < Corvus> Keep me appraised of your progress._

_ < elev> I will... :)_

I started a port scan on the first IP address just before I signed off. I turned off the monitor, but left the desktop running so it could scan Corvus' server overnight. The soft drone of the cooling fans lulled me to sleep.

 

#####


	19. Chapter 19

**December 2011**

 

Several days after delivering a box of used but perfectly serviceable doorknobs to Elizabeth Ruben, John Reese entered the library and made his way up the stairs towards the Batcave. He had the usual box of doughnuts in one hand, a cup carrier balanced in the other. He strolled past the open gate, moving quieter than a panther on the prowl.

Harold Finch sat before his computer desk, as usual, but he was not alone. Like a lithe shadow, Samantha Shaw was poised behind him, peering over his shoulder at something on the monitors. Reese couldn't see what they were looking at from his angle.

Pictures and documents had been taped up on the cracked glass panel—Team Machine had a number to save. Or to stop.

He walked up and set the box down with care, handing Finch his tea and Shaw her coffee.

“Good morning, Mr. Reese,” said Finch.

“John,” Shaw said, nodding once.

“We have a number, Finch?”

“Actually, we have a slight problem, Mr. Reese,” Finch said. “We don't have a number; we have three. And despite my continual efforts, I have not been able to find a link between them. They seem to be independent cases. We'll need to split our resources.”

John nodded. “When it rains...”

“I'll take this guy,” Shaw said. She pointed at the monitor, indicating a picture of a bulky, particularly grumpy-looking man.

“Perhaps the detectives will be able to assist with one of the other Numbers,” Finch said.

Reese walked over to the glass. Examined the pictures.

“This guy has a lot of computers behind him,” he said, tapping a picture of an older, swarthy man with graying hair. He was grinning, seated at a keyboard and monitor in a server room.

“Yes,” Finch said. “Mr. Sarim works as a network engineer at Connetrix, an ISP.”

“In that case, I think I'll invite Elizabeth with me on this one,” Reese said. “I'm sure Harold can get her an internship at Connetrix.”

Both Finch and Shaw turned to look at Reese.

“Elizabeth?” Shaw said. Her voice was an equal mix of disbelieve, curiosity, and disdain. “That little girl?”

John shrugged. “She's good with computers. And she's tougher than she looks.”

“She _looks_ like somebody's kid sister,” Shaw said. “The little-girl shoes and tights don't help.”

“Why, Sam, I thought you knew the first rule of being an undercover agent: don't look like an undercover agent.”

Finch cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Reese, while I realize that Miss Ruben has proven useful in the past when I've been unavailable or when our attention has been divided between multiple Numbers...don't you think it's unwise to have her out in the field? She has no experience.”

“The best way to gain experience in fieldwork is to do fieldwork, Harold.”

Shaw nodded and said, “I agree.”

“It's dangerous,” Finch protested.

“I agree with that too,” Shaw said.

“Don't worry, Harold,” said Reese. “I'll keep her safe. This way, you'll be able to focus on the other two Numbers. Unless you want to run point on this one.” He raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Sarim does look kinda bookish...”

Shaw snorted. Finch raised an eyebrow, but didn't deign to respond.

“Thought so...” Reese said.

 

#####

 

Dawn.

For the past few weeks I'd been thinking that I'd gotten lucky, that the nightmares had finally gone away for good. But in the wee hours of that morning, the dark dreams had risen from the abyss, had pushed forward in a vicious blitzkrieg of hot metal and cold dread, leaving me drenched in sweat, terrified to fall back asleep. So I'd gotten out of bed. Settled into my computer chair. (The fabric was rough and cold against my bare back and thighs—but infinitely preferable to the corrugated metal of a cargo container.) I'd powered on the desktop, programmed until the sky began to lighten.

Breakfast was instant oatmeal, the real sugary kind that I usually loved, but I didn't feel like eating it today. I just mashed it around the sides of my bowl until the “brown-sugar flavored” mush grew cold. I watched the world awaken beyond my kitchen window. There went Amy Jones, dressed in a flowing maroon overcoat and knee-high boots to ward off the cold as she walked to her little Toyota. There went Mr. Baxter, taking Nessie out for her early morning walk like he did every morning at 8:07AM. There went James Stanfield, the elderly Physics professor, bundled up like an Eskimo as he hopped onto his bicycle, dutifully reducing his carbon footprint even in the midst of December.

Hell, that crazy guy would ride through snow, just as long as it wasn't too deep.

I sighed and poked at the cold mush in my bowl, trying to summon up the energy to get dressed, tame my hair, dash on a little lipstick, and drive to the 94th street library. I wasn't doing very well, not even after two cups of tea and a little more honey than I usually preferred. It wasn't so much that I was tired—I'd worked on less sleep before. I was just...drained.

I padded back to the kitchen with my teacup. Before I could reach for the kettle, a faint buzz caught my ear—my cell phone, rattling against the wooden dresser in my bedroom. I set down the cup, walked into the bedroom, and snagged the phone from its dusty perch.

Blocked Number.

I tapped _accept_ and held it to my ear. “Hi John,” I said.

There was a pause. “Ellie,” came John's voice. “I thought you would've sounded happier to hear from me.”

I smiled, just a little. Rubbed my feet together. “Sorry, John. Freaking nightmares. And last night I found out that Mama isn't flying out here for Christmas. The company won't give her time off.”

“Maybe you could fly out to Colorado instead,” John said.

“I'd rather drive,” I said. “I really, _really_ hate airplanes.”

“Technically, airplanes are the safest form of transportation short of elevators.“

“I also hate the TSA agents who think it's fine to grope at me for reasons of national security.”

“There's that.”

“I'll think about it later,” I said. “So. What's up?” My smile widened; my voice turned conspiratorial. “Do you have a case?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” John said. “But this one's more...risky.”

“Sign me up.” I was already headed for the dresser to find something suitable to wear.

“What about your work? This case might take a few days.”

“I'll call in sick. Didn't want to go to the library today anyhow...”

“I'll pick you up at the park,” John said. “We'll talk about it. You won't need your laptop yet.” He hung up.

Ten minutes later I was dressed. It was cold enough for me to wear the dark overcoat Mama had bought me, plus the gray-and-black striped scarf Isaac had given me as a gift a few months ago. The scarf had an annoying tendency to catch strands of my hair, but I wore it anyway for the warmth. I buckled my shoes, grabbed my keys and my flash drive—just in case—and stepped out into the early morning chill. Locked the door and walked down the sidewalk towards the park, shoving my hands deep into the toasty pockets of the coat.

When I'd made it about a quarter mile down the sidewalk, a car pulled up next to me. The passenger door opened. By instinct, I veered away, but then I saw John in the driver's seat.

“Hey, little girl,” he said.

“I'm gonna brutally murder you in your sleep,” I responded as I slid into the passenger's seat.

The car was warm. John waited until I was buckled in before he pulled away from the curb.

“So,” I said. “What's this about a fun—I mean, risky—case?”

John looked over at me for a moment, then returned his attention to the road. He said, “Just how far down the rabbit hole are you willing to go?”

“To the bottom.”

“There is no bottom, Ellie.”

“Then where do the rabbits sleep?”

John said, “You remember those assignments they gave you in school—write like you're somebody else, tell a story from their point of view?”

“God yes,” I groaned. “I _hated_ them. The writing part, I mean. I loved the story part. It was fun to imagine other peoples' points of views, y'know?”

“Good,” John said. “I'm watching a guy who works at an ISP. I know he's in trouble, but I can't tell if he's gonna hurt someone or if someone wants to hurt him.”

“Ooh, a mystery,” I said. “What do you want me to do?”

“How do you feel about going undercover?”

“Undercover? You mean, like a police officer?”

“Sort of. I need more information on this guy—once I know the nature of the threat, I can stop it. I can get you an internship at this place. But not as Elizabeth Ruben.”

The pieces started clicking in my head. “Ah,” I said. “You want me to pretend to be somebody different. Keep an eye on this guy.”

“Right. For a day or two. I don't have the technical background to do it, but you do. You wouldn't be alone. I'd be in contact at all times and nearby most of the time. I'm not asking you to intervene—just to watch.”

“I'll do it,” I said.

“It might be dangerous. He could be a criminal. You could be caught in the crossfire, even as an observer.”

“Tough beans.”

“I'd be throwing you into the deep end of the pool.”

“I can swim just fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mr. mIRC, I'm certain.”

“Are you willing to keep this a complete secret?”

“Duh.”

“Your family and friends can never know that you're working with me. No one can know, not even the police. It would put you in danger.”

“I got it, I got it. We've gone over this before.”

“Just making sure,” John said. He reached up and tapped his ear. “She's onboard, Finch.”

“Who are you talking to?” I asked.

“Lucius Fox.” He tapped his ear again.

“You mean Lucius Finch.”

“Close enough. Get the bag from the seat behind you.”

I reached behind me and caught the plastic bag by the handle. Inside was a cell phone, a small brown leather purse, a glasses case, a set of keys, and a sheaf of paper.

“What's all this?” I said.

“Burner phone, linked to a Bluetooth earwig. Driver's license, credit card, social security card, old university ID. All under your temporary name. Some cash for expenses, let me know if you need more. Fake reading glasses. Keys to a car and apartment. Resume. Life story. Next time you'll get to write some of it yourself. Right now, you need to practice. I'll give you a few minutes to read and then start asking you questions.”

“Holy cow, you don't go halfway.” I went for the tech gizmos first. “This is the smallest Bluetooth receiver I've ever seen.” I inserted it into my ear. It fit comfortably—couldn't even feel it after a few seconds. I zipped open the purse and fished out the driver's license.

“Robin McCartney?” I said. I squinted at the picture. That was me, all right. Only the date of birth on the card was a year and a half after I'd been born, and there was no organ donor indicator. “Robin McCartney.” I laughed. “ _Robin_ McCartney.”

“A fitting name for a sidekick, isn't it?”

“McCartney. People are gonna ask me if I'm related to Paul.”

“Good. You have a conversation starter built in. Your mother is a Beatles fan.”

“What? No, she hates—“

“You're Robin McCartney now, Robin. Your mother, Anne McCartney, _loves_ the Beatles. It says so in that document that you're not reading. You should be reading it, by the way.”

“Robin,” I muttered. “Robin. I kinda like it.”

“See how much you can absorb in the next ten minutes.”

I started with the resume. Robin McCartney, it seemed, had a bachelor's degree in Computer Science from the University of Oregon. She had— _I_ had—graduated with honors, class of 2011. I had worked as an intern at the college's high performance computer research center for a year, had some minor experience with Red Hat Linux and Samba, and had received two modest scholarships that added up to about ten grand. I had also held several part-time jobs—waitress, dog-walker, computer technician at a mom-and-pop computer store.

“Kinda a skimpy resume,” I said. “Looks like I didn't work that hard in college.”

“And you're suffering for it now. You have a bachelor's degree and the only job you can get is an IT internship. Don't worry, Robin. I'm sure the next one will be paid. How are you reading without your glasses, by the way?”

Glowering at John, I reached into the glasses case and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. The frames were rectangular, stylish, sleek black. I hooked the glasses behind my ears and found that the lenses didn't interfere with my vision at all.

“First suggestion: don't take them off, except to sleep. People will get suspicious if they see you without your glasses, but they won't give a second thought if you keep them on all day. You don't start work until this afternoon, by the way. What's your name?”

“Robin.”

“What university did you go to?”

“Um, UO.”

“In what city?”

“Eugene, Oregon.”

“Good. Keep reading.”

I switched to the life story. Robin McCartney, born to Anne McCartney and Daniel McCartney in Eugene, Oregon, 1987. Father died shortly after birth from a heart attack. I attended South Eugene High School, graduated class of 2002, and then attended the University of Oregon.

Anne McCartney worked as a hotel manager at a Best Western. She liked the Beatles, occasionally dabbled in watercolor painting, and sent out a biweekly neighborhood newsletter. There were pictures attached. Anne McCartney stood in front of a little house in the suburbs. Her freckled face was framed by long, curly ginger hair. She wore a patterned green-and-white dress that went down to her shins and a pair of brown rubber garden shoes. Behind her was a small house—a perfect little bungalow in Suburbia. A massive mimosa tree lurked in the left side of the frame.

“Is she real?” I asked.

“She's your mother, Robin.”

“No, I mean, if I googled her right now—does she exist?”

“If you googled her right now, you would find her FriendZone page and her newsletter. If you sent her an email, she would respond.”

“I feel like I'm in a spy movie. What's _your_ name, anyway?”

“John Rooney. Assets manager. For now.”

“Seriously, that name makes you sound like a serial killer.”

“I've killed people before, Ellie. I don't like to do it. But if I'm forced to, I'm very good at it.”

I glanced at him, wondered if he was talking in-character or as John Reese, and decided I didn't want to know more right now. It wouldn't be too surprising if it were true. I knew John was capable of killing—and he'd probably had to do it on occasion to defend the people he was protecting.

I went back to the documents in my hand.

There was another picture beneath the first. In this one was a little girl, maybe four years old. She was half-hidden behind Anne McCartney and had her arms wrapped around her mother's legs. The girl stared balefully at the camera.

“That's me?”

“Yep.”

I had to admit, it looked pretty convincing. I'd had a yellow sundress just like that as a little girl and I had _not_ particularly liked cameras. The only part that was off was the rubber garden shoes.

“I'm wearing clown shoes,” I said.

“Sorry. It's easier to photomanipulate a face than feet.”

Back to the life story. I'd had few friends growing up, preferring to stay inside and read instead of playing outside with the neighborhood kids. I had been a quiet, average student in high school and college.

I read my likes and dislikes.

“I like _green_ tea?”

“If you forget and go for black, you can always say you're experimenting. People probably won't notice, anyway. And I thought it'd be kinder than coffee.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rooney,” I said sweetly. “'Cause there are some things I won't do, not even for you.”

I got down to the part about my personality.

“You want me to be a _ditz_?”

“I wasn't going to say it that way, but—yeah. If you act too competent, people will get suspicious. Nobody suspects the nervous employee who's always dropping papers and forgetting meetings and running all over the place. Don't go overboard on the inept. Just a touch.”

“You know, I'd always wanted to get into the drama club at the college.”

“Really, Robin? Where does it say that?”

 _Damnit,_ I thought.

“Sorry, dude. Elizabeth always wanted to get into the drama club. This sounds like it'll be fun.”

John looked amused. “Did you just call me 'dude'?”

“You said be a ditz!”

He chuckled. “All right. Let's review. What's your current home address?”

“454 East 77th St, Apartment 6B.”

“Good. SSN?”

“542-00—shit.”

“Shit isn't a number, Robin.”

I dug around for the card and decided to practice staying in character. “I'm so, so sorry, I can't remember anything.” I added a nervous chuckle at the end. “542-00-1262. Is this a real social security card?”

“Yes. What's the name of your mother's newsletter?”

“Um, The Wayward Times.”

“How many sisters do you have, Robin?”

“I—um—” I reached for the paper, but stopped. “Wait, I don't have any siblings.”

“Mother's maiden name?”

“Kruger.”

“Excellent. Mother's favorite food?”

“Polish sausage.”

“Say it without wrinkling your nose.”

“Polish sausage. With _lots_ of relish and onions.”

“Better...”

 

#####

 

John drove around for at least an hour, not headed anywhere in particular, just driving. He quizzed me mercilessly on who I was, where I'd come from, what did I like, what experience did I have, where did I go to school, and most importantly of all, what was my name?

Robin McCartney.

Fortunately, the name was easy to remember, but I had to keep reminding myself not to respond to Elizabeth Ruben.

“The hardest part of any cover identity is keeping track of the lies,” John said. “It's better to gracefully wiggle out of a question than respond to it with something you make up on the spot to fill in the gap. If you make up more information, write it down as soon as you can and review it often.”

I nodded.

“We'll take a break now, Robin,” said John. “Let's grab lunch.”

We stopped at a little diner. It was crowded, but the waiter led us to a little booth near the back. I looked over the menu. The waiter came over and offered drinks. I almost ordered black tea—but then I remembered who I was.

“Uh, _green_ tea please,” I said.

“Coffee,” John told the waiter. When the waiter left, he added, “Very nice, Robin.”

“This is fun,” I whispered.

“You haven't even started yet.”

“It's still fun!”

I ordered hash browns and toast. John didn't order anything.

“So what do you want me to do when I get to this ISP?” I asked between mouthfuls of hash browns.

“Do whatever they tell you, but keep an eye on one person when the chance arises. Explore their network if you can do it without attracting attention. Report back to me via phone, or in person—I'll be visiting their offices in the next day or so. What's your name?”

“Robin.”

“Where are your glasses?”

By instinct, I reached up and patted the top of my head, which was usually where my sunglasses ended up when I was indoors. It took me a moment to realize the glasses were still on my face.

“That was mean,” I said.

“Gotta get in my kicks before you strangle me in my sleep. Look on the bright side, Robin. No more 'little girl' while you're undercover.”

“Great. We should do this more often...”

I finished eating; John downed his coffee. He paid, leaving a generous tip, and guided me outside. But we didn't go back to his car. He led me over to a small gray SUV.

“You got me a _car_?” I said.

“I didn't; Finch did. He got you an apartment, too. You're also being compensated for your time at the ISP.”

“He made of money or something? This guy really _is_ Lucius Fox.”

“Pretty much. Now, go check out your apartment.”

 

#####

 

The burner phone vibrated just after I stepped into “my” uptown sixth-floor apartment and switched on the lights. The earpiece distorted John's voice a little, but it was much clearer than it was through the cell phone speaker.

“Nice place,” I said, looking around. The studio apartment squeezed all the amenities into one cozy room. There was a twin bed with plain white sheets, a dresser, a minuscule closet. A short bookshelf next to the bed. A tiny kitchen: hot plate, sink, miniature refrigerator, dish rack, and microwave, all in black. A small wood table with two chairs. A desk with a DSL modem, wireless router, and laptop. Tracked lights on the ceiling; silver lamps on the desk and the bedside table. Alarm clock. Tall windows. Hard wood floor. Brick walls.

A little bathroom was tucked behind a door next to the closet. The washing machine and dryer were sequestered in the corner near the kitchen.

A security camera mounted to the ceiling kept watch from the corner of the room.

“Save the address and memorize the keypad code,” John said. “If there's ever an emergency, you can hole up there. Now, you're due at work in two hours. You should get dressed and review your identity.”

“Get dressed?” I said, unbuttoning my overcoat and peering down at my clothes. “What's wrong with what I'm wearing?”

“Nothing,” John said. “Well, your clothes do make you look like—”

“Don't you dare.”

I could _hear_ John's smile. “I was going to say, _Robin_ , they make you look like a friend of mine.”

“Right,” I said, opening the closet and rifling through the unfamiliar clothes—all of which seemed to be in my size. “How different should I look?”

“As much as you're comfortable. Keep in mind the persona you're adopting. How does Robin dress?”

“Hmm,” I said. “I wanna say glitzy. Kinda a fashion freak, or she wants—I mean, _I_ want to be. But I can't get it down, so it looks kinda goofy.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So in other words, I'll dress like my—like Shannon Ruben.”

I glanced up and eyed the camera. “There's nobody watching through the camera, is there?”

“I'm not watching, Robin. Although I could, if you wanted.”

I dressed in the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror and looked myself over. I had traded my outfit for a pair of comfortable dark slacks and a black-and-white striped blouse with long sleeves. For my feet, I had gone with black socks and my Mary Janes.

I had found a jewelry box sitting at the bottom of the closet. Whoever had filled it hadn't had any idea what they were doing when it came to jewelry—not that _I_ was an expert—but in the end, that helped me, because none of it really matched. I had three bracelets, some with blockish, mismatched metal beads, others with glass bobbles: two bracelets on my left wrist, one on my right. (John had recommended that I pick ones that would snap easily in a fight, so no metal cords or bands.) Two thin necklaces, one of which had a black cross hanging from it. A pair of silver spring-close earrings, the lightest ones I could find to save my earlobes.

I looked vaguely mime-ish, which was as close to fashionable and quirky as I was going to get.

My hair was a bird's nest. I had messed it up as best I could with my fingers—not that it took much work with curly hair like mine, especially since I hadn't combed it this morning—and then tied it back with a band, wrapping it loosely enough to ensure that I would have a frizzy halo sooner rather than later.

The outfit was comfortable and warm, but more importantly, it would let me move around if I needed.

And I really did look a little ditzy.

I pocketed my cell phone, picked up my purse, took a deep breath and said, “All right, John. I'm ready. Let's do this.”

 

#####


	20. Chapter 20

**December 2011**

 

An hour later, I eased the car— _my_ new car, for however long that lasted—into a parking space in front of a squat, three-story office building; a glistening monolith of stone tile and dark green windows. I turned off the engine. Leaned back in my seat. Took a deep breath, drained the last of the tea from the paper cup in the cupholder.

“I'm here,” I said.

“Good,” John's voice crackled. “Want to go over anything before you go inside?”

“No. No, I think I'm good.”

“Remember, you're there only to watch. Take pictures of interesting things with your phone, if you can do it without people noticing. If anything happens, get to safety and call me.”

“What happens if this Horstmann Sarim guy tries to kill somebody or something like that?”

“Call me, get building security. Intervene if there's no choice. Life or death situation _only_ , Robin. You're getting better at your hand-to-hand combat—but you're not that good yet.”

“Should've brought my gun,” I grumbled.

“Robin, are you prepared to shoot someone? To kill them?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

“Then your gun stays at home. Relax, Robin. I just need you to keep eyes on Sarim.”

I swung down the sun visor and checked myself in the mirror. Mussed up my hair once again, just for good measure. Added a little lipstick—a brighter, redder hue than I usually liked.

“Say,” I said. “What are _you_ gonna be doing while I'm in there?”

“Oh, the usual,” John said, sounding nonchalant. “Researching Horsy. Looking up his criminal record. Testing his back door lock and going through all the stuff in his house.”

I shook my head, slung my laptop bag and purse over my shoulder, pushed open the door, and stepped out into the cold morning.

“All right,” I said. “I'm going in.”

The walk to the front doors felt very long. The warm lobby was spacious, sparse; lots of abstract art and peculiar angles and thin, spindly plastic chairs. The square blue-and-white Connetrix logo was displayed prominently on the back wall, accompanied by large, blocky letters screaming the company name. There was a curved reception desk, and behind that desk sat a young man, maybe twenty-five years old. He had mousy blond hair, gray eyes, and a crisp white shirt with thin, vertical blue stripes. The desk dwarfed him.

“Hi,” he said, smiling. He wore braces. “Welcome to Connetrix. I'm Darryl. How can I help you?”

“Um, I'm—I'm the new girl,” I said. “Robin—Robin McCartney.” I chuckled weakly. The nervousness wasn't an act. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“Oh!” he said. “Melissa said to expect you. I think I have the note here...no, maybe here...” He squinted at a long, ragged row of sticky notes hanging from the inner lip of the reception counter. When he got to one of them, he plucked it off with a flourish. “Yeah. Okay, I'll have her down here in a jiff. You're, um, a bit late. Have a seat. Want a cookie? We got cookies.”

I looked where he was pointing, and sure enough, there was a plate of cookies next to a water cooler.

“Yeah, sure. I'll go for a cookie.”

I snagged one of the cookies off the plate, sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, crossed my legs, and waited, waggling my feet out of anxiety.

Eight minutes and three stale chocolate-chip cookies later, the lift chimed and the steel door slid aside. A woman stepped out of the lift, saw me, and walked over to where I sat. Her short black pumps clicked on the tile floor with each step.

“Hi,” she said, holding out her hand. “You must be Robin. I'm your supervisor—Melissa Lee.”

Melissa Lee had skin the color of creamy coffee and long, nimble fingers, one of which bore a golden wedding band. She had short, curly black hair that was trimmed close to her head. Hazel eyes. A fine gray suit jacket and flowing skirt. The smile on her face was infectious and, as far as I could tell, genuine. She looked like she smiled a lot and meant it each time.

My fingers trembled when we shook hands. Such long fingers!

“Hi,” I said. “Sorry—um, sorry, Miss Lee, I know I'm late—”

“Oh, don't mind that at all. Come on. I'll show you around.” She tilted her head towards the lift and we stepped inside. She pressed the button for the third floor. The door grumbled shut. There was the muffled sound of a hydraulic pump and the cab began to shudder upward, vibrating beneath my shoes.

“So,” Melissa said. “I read your resume. Glad to see you know your way around Samba. Our old Skylight 2000 fileserver can't keep up anymore and we _really_ would like replace it with Samba on CentOS. Jackie will want to talk to you about that.”

“Yeah, Skylight 2000 is kinda old,” I said, scratching the back of my head. “Uhm, what hardware is it running on now?”

“Hah.” She rolled her eyes. “Dual Titanium-III CPUs, I think, on a hundred Mbit port.”

I winced. “Oww. That's like, last-century.”

“Exactly.”

The lift door parted. We stepped out into an office area that was considerably less high-tech than the lobby below. Several clusters of computer desks were scattered around the room. Cables snaked across the floor between the desks. The cables had been duct-taped to the dark blue carpet. Judging by the way the tape was pealing at the ends, the tape had been a permanent fixture of the office for quite some time. All the monitors were mismatched—some beige, some gray, some black, even a few CRTs—and there were at least three different colors of rolling chairs in the room.

There were about twenty people in the office, maybe twenty five. Most of them were hard at work at their computers, although I could see from here that the two young guys in the back were clustered around a monitor that was prominently displaying a certain popular web site devoted to cat pictures.

Melissa Lee pointed out a few of the workers nearest to us. Some of them waved; a few walked up to shake hands. One of the workers, a shy young kid that was probably just out of college, held my hand just a little too long. A foolish grin was plastered on his face, which was framed by messy locks of black hair.

“Hi,” he said, stretching out the syllable. “Uh, I'm Andrew. But—but you can call me Andy. Everybody does.”

“Hi, Andy,” I said. I was too nervous to get into much of a conversation, and a few seconds later, he sulked back to his workstation.

Melissa said, “There's Jackie.” Melissa pointed to a woman with bright, messy ginger hair that went all the way down to her butt. “She'll want to talk to you later. Now, let's show you the server room.”

She guided me up to a door with an RFID card reader. Taking a card out of her breast pocket, she held it against the scanner, which beeped. The door clicked open.

As far as server rooms went, it wasn't too unusual: lots of noise, lots of heat, lots of computers and networking gear mounted in lots of tall racks. Massive silver air ducts loomed overhead, leading to three air conditioning units mounted against the nearest wall. A river of cold air spilled from vents near the floor and pooled around my legs. The drone of the air handlers and the high-pitched whine of the servers stung my ears. Melissa had to raise her voice.

“You good with hardware, Robin?” Melissa asked.

“Uh, kinda,” I said. “I mean, I've built a few computers...” That hadn't been in my script or resume, but it felt like it was a safe assumption to make.

“Good, we'll make a hardware tech out of you yet. In a month you'll be _sick_ of SabreBlade servers. Shoddiest equipment I've ever seen, and we're still under contract with mTech. See that server over there?” She pointed to a fat, matte black server, about six inches thick, mounted in a rack a few feet away. There were a half-dozen network cables snaking away from it. “It needs rebooted at least once a day.”

“What does it do?” I said, eying it curiously.

“It's our Nagios monitoring server. Doesn't like the high load. A lousy piece of shit, if I do say so myself. The server, I mean. Well, Nagios too. It's always spitting out warnings of doom and gloom about security breaches and all sorts of other false alarms. You good with Nagios?”

“Um, no,” I said.

“Shame. No one around here is. Except Sarim—and speak of the devil, here he is.”

I decided right away that I didn't like Horstmann Sarim. There was something about him that had all my instincts whispering “don't trust him.” I couldn't figure it out. He seemed like a nice man: he smiled when Melissa introduced us and shook my hand firmly, not letting go too soon but not letting his grip linger either.

Mama had always said that you could judge a man by his handshake.

But then again, she'd also said that a cup of tea a day kept illness at bay, and then my little brother had gone and gotten himself pneumonia...

Sarim had a fringe of white hair around his head and his beard was snowy to match. His hands were large and strong. He wore tan slacks and a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. No tie.

Melissa said to Sarim, “I was thinking we could see how well she knows her way around Red Hat, maybe have her help you install and configure some of the new rack servers.”

“Well...” he said. He hesitated. “I guess we can try her out tomorrow. You know Kickstart, Robin?”

“Sorta,” I said, scratching my head. Really, I knew how to use it perfectly well, but I wasn't supposed to be acting like I knew everything. “I've, uh, played with it before.”

“Good.” To Melissa, he said, “I gotta get back to configuring the edge router...bring her in tomorrow.”

Melissa nodded and Sarim disappeared among the rows of computer equipment.

I was shown a few other interesting sights in the server room—including two other servers that needed rebooted several times per day and an extremely crotchety gigabit network switch that had once caught on fire (and had the scorch marks to prove it). Halfway down one of the aisles was a cheap plastic fan tilted back against a chair to provide spot cooling for a rack of overheating equipment.

After a few minutes, Melissa led me back out to the main office and showed me my desk. Aside from a legal pad, a lonely unconnected network cable, and a power strip, the surface was bare.

And it was _right_ next to Andrew's workstation.

“We'll get a computer up here tomorrow,” Melissa promised. “In the meantime, you can use your laptop. There's not much for you to do today. I'll give you our intranet portal URL—the portal has docs on the network and the dev tools. I'll be back in awhile with your temporary password. Okay?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Awesome, Robin,” Melissa said. She patted my shoulder. “Glad to have you here.” She took a pen from Andrew's desk, wrote down an IP address on the legal pad, and pushed it towards me.

“Be back in awhile,” she said, and she walked away.

I sat down in my chair, exhaled. The chair squeaked, but I didn't mind—I was glad to be sitting. The laptop case strap had just about worn a groove in my shoulder. I put it on the ground, unzipped it, and pulled out the laptop and power supply. I set them on the desk, then shoved the laptop case and purse into the footwell of my desk.

Opening the laptop lid, I connected the power supply, clicked the network cable into the port on the side, and pressed the power button. It was only then that I realized that _this wasn't my laptop_. I had grabbed it off the desk in “my” apartment and stuffed it in its case without realizing what I was doing.

It _looked_ like one of my laptops, sure. By some cosmic coincidence, the laptop was an IFT I60—a very popular but sadly discontinued model of the infamous IFT Thinkbook. About three-quarters of an inch thick; heavy; matte black, with thick gray metal lid hinges. A row of status LEDs just beneath the screen. A large, silky touchpad with mouse buttons that actually moved when you pressed on them (and didn't require a billion pounds of force to click). A soft, responsive keyboard.

The laptop had even been stripped of the irritating shiny stickers that usually besieged the palmrest—“Titanium Mobile CPU Inside” and “Graphics by videoQ” and all that nonsense.

But the long scratch on the back of the lid was missing.

The laptop flashed the IFT logo on the screen, then switched to the bootloader. A moment later, I saw Linux kernel messages scroll past, blocky white text on a black background, as it booted. The screen flashed again and I was faced with an unceremoniously dull login prompt. It looked generic. I couldn't even tell what variant of Linux was running.

And, I realized, I didn't know the username and password to log in.

Hesitantly, I reached for the keyboard, but before I touched it, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. New text message.

**From: (Unknown Caller)**

_**user: root** _

_**password: VAj3xKloss2mjfnHF73wJNItMDCBnTvbxuOlytxUzik=** _

_**Change password and configure as you please.** _

“John, John, John,” I mumbled as I typed in the password. “You just _had_ to give me a root password like that.”

Several seconds later, I was faced with a very plain desktop with a solid black background. A simple menu bar ran across the top of the screen. There was a drop-down menu, and next to it were some common application icons: a web browser, a terminal window, a text editor, and a file manager.

I clicked the drop down menu and gasped. This laptop was _loaded_. Every security tool I could think of was present, and then some. But I still didn't recognize this variant of Linux.

“Nice laptop,” a voice said in my ear. I jumped.

“Sorry!” Andrew said, leaning away from me. He had rolled his chair over next to mine. “I'm just—I'm quiet, you know? Like a ninja.”

“A ninja?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Uh, yeah. I'm sneaky. Everybody around here knows it.”

“Uh- _huh_ ,” I said. I started a terminal window and began to enter the root password again so I could change it to something more memorable. Andrew was sitting a little too close for comfort. I glared until he got the hint and looked away so I could finish entering the rest of the password.

When I was done, he started talking again. “Really though. The I60. _Love_ the I60s. Except that—that heatsink thing, never really liked that much. And the model is kinda old these days—I mean, two gigahertz? Come on. And the Titanium Mobile Duo is only a 32-bit CPU. But besides that, it's great, you know? Just great. Especially if it's loaded with three gigabytes of RAM. Is that thing maxed out?”

“I think so,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the monitor as I opened Firefox and browsed to the IP address Melissa had given me. The company intranet splash page popped up at once.

“I had an I42 once. You know, the ones with the loose GPU? Man, that happened to me, right in the middle of the semester, you know? GPU melted right off the motherboard, I was like, _my God,_ I wanted to give the thing a eulogy. Then I felt bad, because it was my fault, I was playing video games and the chip just got too hot. It felt like murder, you know?”

“Yeah.” I could tell that this motor-mouth wasn't going to hush up anytime soon. I wasn't sure what to do. See, if I'd been back at Landis, I would've put him in his place with a few choice words from my acerbic tongue, but here, I was supposed to be a new intern. And by definition, interns were supposed to kiss up to the other workers, not get all snappish with them.

“Is that Linux?” he said, leaning closer. “Is that—that looks like XFCE. No, it's too plain. Not that plain is bad. Plain is _fast_ , you know? Like a jet. Gotta love a girl that knows how to squeeze every last drop of performance from a laptop.”

The look on my face must've been quite a sight, because when I glanced over at him he quickly held up his hands and added, “I'm just sayin'...!”

I sighed and said, “Look, I gotta read these docs.” I motioned to my laptop screen. “I'll show you the laptop later, okay?”

“Oh, right, sure!”

Andrew rolled his chair back to his terminal, leaving me alone to read. Or to pretend to read.

I opened up a terminal window and started wget in recursive mirror mode, telling it to fetch every document on the intranet and download it to the laptop. I gave it a little random delay between documents and limited the bandwidth to a few hundred kilobytes per second, but it still finished the job in less than five minutes. While it did that, I explored the network a little.

First, I looked at what sort of IP addresses the laptop had been given. To my surprise, I found both an IPv4 address and an IPv6 address. Not many places used IPv6 on their networks. I tried accessing the Internet—the firewall allowed it.

 _Sloppy security_ , I thought. _Would've thought it wouldn't let me do that until my laptop was registered with a DHCP server._

I went back and browsed the documents. The doc on the company file server had an IP address in it. I tried accessing it. It rebuffed me with a password prompt—and I didn't have my password yet. I bookmarked the IP address and moved on.

A few minutes later, Melissa returned with a sheet of paper. My password and account information had been printed on it. She showed me the section of the intranet portal where I could change my password. (I'd found the form ten minutes ago, but I didn't want to tell her that.)

When I tried to put in a new password, it returned an error.

_“We're sorry, but your password must be between four and eight characters in length and can only contain the following characters: a-zA-Z0-9”._

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah,” Melissa said. “It has to be compatible with the legacy systems.”

I cringed as I typed in a weaker password, using all eight characters available to me. I had to remind myself: _You're only here for a few days...you're only here for a few days...who cares if it can be cracked in just a few minutes..._

After Melissa walked away, I tried accessing the file server again with my new credentials. This time, it obediently delivered a share list.

 _Oh my god._ _Are they sharing the whole hard drive_?

“Oh, for heaven's sake...” I mumbled. Sure enough, I had read-only access to every file on the hard drive—including the configuration files.

Which had admin passwords embedded inside for the network authentication server.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, I casually copied the files to my laptop. It took awhile, even though the files were tiny. The server must've _really_ been loaded.

While I waited, I explored the laptop more. I finally found a file in /etc that claimed the laptop was running a version of Arch Linux, but I had no idea what kind of graphical interface was layered on top. The system package update mirrors were hosted at IFT under a directory called _minerva._ I checked for security updates—old habits died hard—but there were no newer packages available.

As I tentatively explored the laptop and the Connetrix file server, I noticed that the laptop fan was running on high. The vent at the left-rear of the laptop was like a leaf blower—but the air coming out was cold.

_Aww, really? Don't tell me this laptop has the heatsink flaw too._

I accessed the internal sensors. Groaned. 85C for Core0, 88C for Core1. The first thermal trip point had already been passed, and the CPU had throttled each core down to 800MHz (from 2GHz) to protect itself from overheating.

And that made things _slow_ , especially the way I liked to multitask.

My cell phone buzzed again—incoming call. I answered it without looking at the screen. I knew who it'd be.

“John,” I whispered, turning away from Andrew. “You had all the laptops in the world to choose from, and you had to pick a first-revision I60.”

“I thought you'd appreciate it some familiar hardware, Robin.”

“Yeah, well, I'm familiar with the way the I60 likes to overheat and shut down because IFT was too dumb to put in a proper heatsink until three hardware revisions later.”

A pause. “Is the laptop giving you trouble?”

I refreshed the temperature sensors.

“Oh, no, not at all. Unless you count the CPU being nearly hot enough to boil water, I mean. Look, can you swing by my—er, Elizabeth's apartment? Take the I60 there and drop it off at home.”

“Won't that one overheat as well?”

“Nu-uh. I modified it. There's a two millimeter thick copper plate over the CPU to draw the heat towards the fan. And the south bridge has a real heatsink, too. So now it's a _real_ laptop. It's lasted me all through college.”

“I'll get it. It'll be waiting for you at your apartment. How is your first day at work?”

“Not bad,” I mumbled, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Andrew wasn't listening in. He appeared absorbed in his work. “Met some new coworkers...got my network credentials...Sarim makes me nervous. I dunno why. But I'll be working with him tomorrow.”

“Trust your instincts, Robin. Don't let your guard down. Do you need anything else?”

“Nah. I'm good.”

“Call me if you need me,” he said, and the line went dead.

 

#####

 

I signed out at 5PM, drove “my” SUV to “my” apartment, took the lift to the sixth floor, and unlocked my door.

“Hi, John,” I said. I kicked off my shoes, worked the band out of my hair, and closed the door. “Something smells good.”

He was sitting at the tiny dining table. Motioning to a paper bag in front of him, he said, “Chicken with vegetables; chow-mien; egg flour soup. I'd make you dinner, but I can't stay long.”

“Aww, that's sweet,” I said. I set the laptop bag and purse on the bed and walked over to the table, sitting down across from John. My stomach grumbled. I reached for the bag and started pulling out take-out boxes, napkins, and a pair of chopsticks.

“Your laptop's on the desk,” he said. “I'm sorry, Robin. The I60 was my idea. My computer guy wanted to go for something newer.”

“Hey, it's fine. All the new IFT stuff is lousy anyway. I'll just swap out the hard drives.” A puff of steam greeted my face when I opened the container of chow-mien. I dug in.

“Now,” John said, “tell me about Connetrix. Did you see anything unusual?”

“Besides unusually horribad security setups? I think I got the admin password for their network auth system.”

John raised his eyebrows, smiled. “Nice.”

“Mmm,” I said, poking at the chow-mien with my chopsticks. “This is good. You want some?”

“No, thanks. Already ate. Did you see Sarim again today?”

“Nu-uh. I probably will tomorrow though. He gives me the creeps. Dunno why.”

“Trust your instincts. Who else did you meet today?”

“Melissa Lee—my boss. She's nice. Seems to know what she's talking about. And Andrew.” I snickered. “Motor-mouth. He's at the desk next to mine and he has absolutely no filter between here and here.” I pointed to my head and my mouth.

“Did anyone act suspicious? Wary of the new employee?”

“Nah. Everyone seemed happy to see me. The two guys in the back were a little _too_ happy to see someone female and breathing, actually. I could feel their eyes on my butt.”

“If they give you any trouble, you can always call me.”

“That'd scare 'em straight,” I said, laughing. I stuck the chopsticks into the mass of noodles, smoothed back my hair and said, “You know what? I need tea. You want some tea?”

“I'll pass,” John said. “Gotta go in a minute. But I want to make sure you're comfortable being undercover. You can back out any time.”

“No way!” I said, waving my hand in dismissal. There was a silver tea kettle next to the hot plate in the kitchen. I filled the kettle with water and started it heating. “It was fun. Really, it's fine. I'm enjoying it. It's like an adventure.” I turned around just in time to see John drop a fat envelope on the table.

“Your paycheck for the day,” he said. “Just remember, you're not Indiana Jones. Play it safe.”

“I will.”

“We'll talk tomorrow, Robin. I have to go stake out a house.”

“Bye, John,” I said. He left.

The hot plate was about as effective as a candle. While waiting for it to heat the water, I walked back to the table and picked up the envelope. Opened it.

 _Jesus Christ_ , I thought. I was stunned. _There's...at least two thousand dollars in here._

Stupefied, I sat down and stared at the envelope until the tea kettle began to whistle.

I ate dinner, sipped my tea. Ducked into the bathroom to slip off my daywear and wrap a nightgown around my body. (I was still wary of that damn camera.)

Before heading to bed, I sat down at the desk and ran my hand over the closed lid of the laptop John had brought from my apartment. The deep scratch ran from one corner to the other. It went all the way down to the metal of the lid.

I flipped the laptop over with care, intending to swap out the drives with the one in the laptop John had gotten for me, but I realized I didn't have my screwdrivers. I searched the desk drawers and found a tiny case of tools in the second drawer down. I removed a screw from the underside of the laptop, popped off the side cover, and slid the drive out. Took the other laptop from its case, removed its drive, and slid it home in my I60, screwing the cover back down. Flipped the laptop over again. Opened it. Pressed the power button. Logged in. Fired up the thermal monitoring app and ran a few applications to heat the CPU.

The temperature never went past 50C.

Satisfied, I left the laptop to charge and headed for bed. Slipped under the sheets. Clicked off the light. Braced myself for the darkness, hoping that the charger LED on the laptop would be enough to dispel the shadows.

But I hadn't needed to worry. Across the room, plugged into one of the electrical outlets, was a little nightlight, just like the one my little brother had used. It glowed gently, an amber beacon in the dark.

John had installed a nightlight in my apartment. I wouldn't be lost in the darkness tonight.

Smiling to myself, I shed the nightgown beneath the sheets, tossed it to the foot of the bed, and curled up to sleep.

 

#####


	21. Chapter 21

**December 2011**

 

That night, Reese sat in a vacant apartment across the street from Horstmann Sarim's little clapboard house. Reese peered through the window blinds. The room in which he sat was dark and empty but for a sturdy wooden chair and a water bottle. His cell phone was on his lap, connected to a conference call with Harold Finch and Samantha Shaw.

“...so it's the wife,” Shaw said. “I sent the pictures over to Fusco. Should be enough to put her away for awhile. I'll hang out here until she gets arrested, then I'll head back to HQ.”

“Very good, Miss Shaw,” said Finch. “Although, I must say, you sound rather subdued.”

Not that an untrained listener would have been able to tell. Samantha Saw's voice was perpetually cool and disinterested. Most of her emotions were beyond the range of the average person's hearing, much like a dog whistle. Except when she got _really_ mad, in which case, everyone for miles around could tell and even Reese was apt to cringe.

“Open-and-shut case, Finch,” Shaw said. “Boring.”

“Why, I'm so _very_ sorry that we were not able to provide the excitement and violence you crave, Miss Shaw. We'll do better next time, I promise.”

“We could even throw in an explosion or two,” Reese added. “I still have some C4 from the Harding case. Help yourself, Shaw. Back wall, bottom-left drawer in the A/V room—”

“Mr. Reese,” said Finch, his voice tight, “I don't particularly approve of storing military-grade explosives among rare first-edition—”

Shaw butted in. _“_ Wait a minute, Finch. _I_ crave violence and excitement?” The sound that emitted from the speaker sound suspiciously like a scoff. “You got mixed me up with your heavily-armed guard dog. _He's_ the one that goes around and kneecaps everyone. I bet he's keeping score. Ten points for ordinary knees, twenty points for perps wearing shorts, thirty points if under fire, fifty points if the perp is holding a machine gun, a hundred points plus a 1-up if the perp is holding a sniper rifle while naked and a thousand points if—”

“Shaw,” Reese said, “I'm hurt. You know it's an efficient way to neutralize a target without killing them. Plus, it gets me into less trouble with Detective Carter if the perps are limping rather than dead.” Reese scanned Sarim's house with the binoculars. The network administrator had gone to bed a half-hour ago, and since then, the street had been still.

“Also,” he added, “I'm at fifteen thousand, six hundred twenty points. Pretty sure that's a high score. How about you?”

Shaw said, “Last I checked, you haven't gotten to shoot anybody for two weeks now. You're probably going into withdrawal. Kneecap withdrawal. It's a real syndrome, look it up.”

“You know,” Reese said idly, “I've built up a lot of good will with Carter lately. Maybe I'll get lucky this case and make some orthopedic surgeon's day.”

“Anything new on Mr. Sarim?” Finch asked in a not-very-subtle attempt to change the subject.

“No, not yet,” said Reese.

“I'm still trying to crack the encrypted hard drive images you acquired today,” Finch said. “The security software employed by Mr. Sarim is rather robust. However, the Connetrix network security measures leave much to be desired, especially with the credentials Miss Ruben discovered. I'm probing their network. I haven't yet found anything out of the ordinary there, but I'll keep looking.”

“Data encryption is bad,” Shaw said. “Usually means people have things to hide.”

“Or it just means they're _really_ private people,” Reese said.

He was pretty sure he heard a sigh over the cell phone.

“How is the Conkin case going, Finch?” Reese said.

“Detective Carter has staked out her apartment building,” Finch said. “Miss Conkin's biggest threat appears to be—and here I quote the Detective—her 'hyperactive chihuahua from Hell'.”

Reese smirked. “And here I thought Carter was a dog person. I must be losing my touch.”

“A dog thinks all people should own dogs,” said Shaw.

“Well, yeah. Dogs are the best choice. Can a _cat_ be taught Dutch and be trained to eat a person on command? I doubt it. And cats have no loyalty—they don't obey their handlers.”

“But cats have superior intellect and grace,” Shaw pointed out. “Not to mention very sharp claws and teeth.”

“Sounds like you learned that from experience. You sure you don't prefer dogs?”

“Only if the dog is well trained. Like Bear. And no—uncontrollably shooting people in the knees doesn't indicate training.”

“It's not uncontrollable; it's very deliberate.”

Finch said, “Perhaps this intriguing conversation can continue on a private line. Mr. Reese, do you still plan to visit Connetrix tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I'll poke my nose where it doesn't belong. Rattle a few cages. Charm a few women. The usual. But I think Elizabeth will be able to keep an eye on Sarim better than I can.”

“You're confident she can protect herself if necessary?”

“She knows enough to get herself out of a scrape.”

Shaw said, “I hope she's smart enough to know when to run away from one.”

“She is,” Reese said. “But I'll remind her anyway...”

 

#####

 

I opened one eye and peered at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 5:54AM, it said, its LED screen glowing gently red. The room was dark but for the nightlight—the dawn was not yet bright enough to lighten the window shades.

 _Might as well get up_ , I thought. _I'll regret it more if I wait the last few minutes._

So I blinked the sleep-grit away, yawned, stretched my limbs. Brushed strands of curly hair from my face. Sat up. The cold air caressed my bare back and shoulders as the sheets fell away from my body. I reached for the alarm clock and disabled the alarm, then clicked on the bedside light.

“Good morning, Robin,” said the man on the couch.

I yelped and clutched the sheets against my chest, falling back against the pillows. “The hell, John? _”_ I slurred, squinting my eyes against the sudden brightness of the lamp. “I'm naked!”

Raised eyebrows. “You are?”

“...kinda.”

I wasn't, not quite, but Mama had made sure I'd grown up knowing that it was absolutely improper for a man to see a woman in her underthings. According to her, my body was something precious, beautiful; something that only my mate should have the honor of seeing in its full glory because everybody else just plain didn't deserve to see it. (Mama had a pretty low opinion of most people _.)_ But John had already seen me naked once, and he had _saved my life_ , and given the way things were going, it didn't look very likely that I was going to settle down with anybody in the foreseeable future, so...who cared?

I kept the sheets around my body anyway, just out of habit. If he asked, I wouldn't hesitate to lay myself bare—but only if he asked.

A tiny part of me really wished he would.

Sighing, I said, “What on Earth are you doing here? John, I'm not even _awake_. Turn around, will ya?”

“I'm here to give you a few reminders,” John said to the wall as I reached for the nightgown. It had ended up down near my feet. I slipped my legs out from under the sheets, quickly wrapped the gown around my body, and stepped out of bed. The wood floor was ice. I made a mental note to buy a pair of slippers to keep at this apartment.

I mumbled, “No more talking until I pee and have my tea, m'kay?” Shuffling past John, who was still contemplating the brick wall, I visited the bathroom. Did my business. Washed my hands, stepped back into the living area. John was now sitting at the table. There was a steaming paper cup in front of my empty chair.

I didn't say anything. I just sat down and picked up the cup. Took a sip. Coughed in surprise. The beverage that greeted my tongue was _not_ Black Pearl tea.

“What _is_ that?” I said. “Where's the honey?”

“It's Sencha green tea, Robin,” said John. “Your favorite.”

“I'm not Robin until I'm awake,” I said, feeling grumpy. John was in for it now. He'd messed with _my tea_.

“You should really be Robin right now. It's easier to maintain a cover identity if you start thinking about it from the moment you're first conscious.”

I sighed and glared down at the cup. “There's not enough tea in my honey.”

“I think there's a jar in the kitchen somewhere.”

“I need like, at _least_ five tablespoons.” I walked over to the cupboards and began pulling them open, eying the unfamiliar contents within.

“Good,” John said, “you're sounding more like Robin already.”

“Hush, you.”

I found the jar and stirred a teaspoon or two of honey into my tea. It helped mask the unfamiliar bitterness of the green tea. Soon I was feeling awake enough to think properly—as Robin. Damnit, I was Robin. Not Elizabeth. Who was Elizabeth? I didn't know. But she had way better taste in tea than I did.

“Robin,” I muttered to myself. I forced down another gulp of tea. “My name is Robin.”

“Where was your mother born?” John asked.

“What?” I said.

“You heard me.”

“That's mean,” I said, pouting. “I'm not even all the way awake yet.”

“So if your life depends on a piece of information and you can't remember it, you'll be okay because you're not awake when you're asked?”

I growled. “Spokane, Oregon.”

“Good.”

“I'mma crank up the heater and take a nice, long hot shower now,” I said. “I don't need to be at work for an hour and a half and since I'm a ditz I can be a little late.”

“That's the spirit,” John said. “I'll be around Connetrix later today—but you don't know me.”

“Who you gonna be this time?”

“I haven't decided yet. I'll introduce myself, if necessary.”

“You gonna be Rooney the serial killer again?”

John chuckled. “Maybe. But, speaking of killers—don't forget why you're at Connetrix. You're my eyes and ears, not my gun. If something goes down, you get to safety and call me.”

“Yeah, I know, we went over this. You're really redundant, you know that? You're like a dialog box. Are you _suuuuure_ you want to delete this file? No, really, are you _reaaaally_ seriously extra super certainly sure? Real admins use `rm -rf`, you know. No verification prompt.”

“I want you to stay safe,” John said.

“I'll be fine. Now go away, lemme shower...”

 

#####

 

I dried my hair with a towel but deliberately left it uncombed and unruly. Wrapping another towel around my chest, I walked out into the main room of the apartment (which by now was delightfully warm) and opened the closet.

I figured that Robin McCartney, in her quest to be quirky and fashionable, would certainly not wear a similar outfit two days in a row. This was problematic for Elizabeth Ruben, who had a small number of favorite outfits that she wore with only minor variations throughout each season. Fashion was not her thing.

Fortunately, it wasn't really Robin's thing, either.

I explored my options. It felt like I was a little kid playing dress-up. It was fun, in a way, and yet at the same time, it was an irritating chore. I would've much rather gone with my schoolgirl outfit, but that was what Elizabeth wore, not Robin. And I was Robin. Robin McCartney.

After some thought, I reversed the colors of the outfit I'd worn yesterday: I found a thin black cardigan, a long-sleeved white blouse with a V-shaped neckline cut just a little bit lower than I preferred, a pair of black slacks with thin, vertical white strips, and a pair of lightweight tennis shoes.

As I carried the clothes into the bathroom to change—I had forgotten to ask John just _why_ there was a _camera_ staring at me in my own apartment—I wondered idly who had done all the shopping. I mean, there were a lot of clothes here, way more than I'd ever be comfortable owning. I could've worn a different outfit every day of the year if I'd wanted to. Somebody'd had to buy all these clothes. But the mental image of John going around the malls and Broadway boutiques, with a half-dozen shopping bags hanging from one arm and a mountain of clothes draped over the other, just didn't fit. And I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried, imagine him walking into a department store, sauntering to the womens' section, and picking out _exactly_ the kind of comfortable yet just-barely-not-quite-modest underthings I liked to wear. I mean, I knew John was brave, but I wasn't sure if he was _that_ brave.

Then again, his audacity level was off the charts. Maybe he'd done it for the sole purpose of making everyone around him squirm. He was good at that...

I stepped into the pants, pulled them up. They fit just right, which made me wonder. I mean, I hadn't managed to find a single article of clothing that wasn't in my size in the entire apartment. How did John know what size clothes I wore? How did he know my shoe size? My cup size?

How in the hell did he know...well, _everything_?

 _He probably went through the clothes in your apartment_ , I thought as I buttoned up the blouse. My eyes widened as I considered the implications. _Oh my god. Did he peek in the box in the back of the dresser drawer? Oh my god, if he did, I'mma kill him. I swear, I_ will _kill him_. _Slowly. With a spoon._

I was ready for work by 7:12AM. If I left now, I'd get to work right on time—the Connetrix offices were only twenty minutes away even with traffic—but I dawdled a bit. Made myself a proper cup of black tea. Added another earring for the hell of it. Sprawled on the couch, played with the burner phone. I found the apps menu and did a double-take when I read the names of some of the applications.

 _Force-Pair?_ I thought. _What on earth is that?_

_Activate Microphone?_

_Camera Feed?_

John had put a bunch of _spyware_ on my phone?

Curious, I selected the Force-Pair app. A window popped up on screen with an hourglass icon spinning in the middle. A second later, a list of surrounding devices was displayed—and on that list was “Elizabeth Ruben's Cell Phone.”

Gulping, I selected it, keeping an eye on the battered black Android laying screen-up on the coffee table.

A few seconds later, the burner phone said: “Force-pairing Elizabeth Ruben's Cell Phone: failed. (Reason: Bluetooth response timeout.)”

 _Oh, that's right_ , I thought to myself. _I removed the driver for the Bluetooth adapter on my other phone...but what would've happened if I hadn't? Score one for paranoia..._

I didn't want to experiment on random peoples' cell phones, so I hastily exited the menu and shoved the phone into my pocket. I stood. Gathered my purse, my trusty flash drive, and laptop case. It was time to go. I headed down the lift and out to the frigid car at the sidewalk. Locked myself in and started the engine. I let the car warm up for a few minutes, then eased out into traffic.

I arrived at the Connetrix offices eighteen minutes late, snuck a cookie from the lobby when Daryl wasn't looking, and headed up to the third floor.

Andrew started talking before I'd even had a chance to sit down in front of the battered CRT monitor that had appeared on my desk overnight. He kept talking as I logged in and waited, waited, waited for the desktop to load. (The hard drive was thrashing; a glance at the desktop tower on the floor revealed a “Titanium-III Inside” sticker. No wonder it was so slow. I guessed the interns got the bottom of the barrel.)

Fortunately, I didn't have to tune out Andrew's ramblings for long. I was rescued by Jackie Peterson.

“Robin, _there_ you are,” she said. “Been looking all over. Melissa wants you working with Sarim in the server room today.”

I followed close behind Jackie, getting a close-up view of all that lovely ginger hair. I was envious. When I'd been a little girl, _my_ hair had gone down to my rump, just like Jackie's, but as I'd grown up, my hair hadn't grown with me. After my fifteenth birthday, I'd never gotten my hair down past my shoulder blades. And then it'd gotten stained by that horrible green paint last year, and I'd had to lop most of it off...

 _Maybe you should grow your hair out again,_ I thought.

“So, what kind of work have you done with Samba?” Jackie asked as we made our way towards the server room door.

“I—uh. Simple stuff, y'know? File sharing, printer sharing...”

“Ever integrate it with a directory service?”

“Yeah. Yeah, uhm, I know how to connect it to a domain controller for network authorization and authentication.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I began to berate myself. So much for appearing inept.

“Awesome,” Jackie said. “You know more about it than I do. See, we're building a new file server. Hardware RAID, quad-core CPU, sixty-four gigabytes of RAM, all that jazz. We were hoping to put Samba on it and integrate it with our domain controller. Think you can help?”

“Yeah, sure. Are you using Samba 3 or Samba 4?”

“Samba 4 is out now?”

“Well...it's still alpha...but it's stable, and it plays nicer with directory servers.”

Jackie shrugged. “We could try it. We'll talk about it later.” She held the card reader up to the door scanner. The door lock clicked and we headed into the noisy server room.

“I like you already, Robin,” said Jackie. She smiled. “Our last intern, he didn't know one end of a network cable from the other.”

“Erm, the ends are the same,” I said.

“Exactly...”

 

#####

 

Sarim listened to my enthusiastic, ditz-ified ramblings about Samba, nodded thoughtfully at my suggestions (most of which were completely valid, but a few were purposefully bogus). Then he handed me a CentOS installation DVD, directed me to a desk with six small rack servers set on top of each other, and told me to wipe them and install a fresh operating system on each.

I said, “Don't you have, like, kickstart scripts for automation? You asked yesterday if I—”

“Nah,” Sarim said. “We only have scripts for the big stuff. We do everything else manually. Just give 'em a root password of 'password' and I'll change it later. Don't connect them to the network. Come get me when they're done. I have some work to do.” And he walked away and disappeared among the whirring racks of equipment, leaving me to babysit six operating system installations—child's play, really, but tedious. There was only one old-fashioned PS/2 keyboard and a single monitor at the desk. I could hotplug the monitor safely, but I couldn't disconnect the keyboard from a running system without damaging the keyboard controller, so I couldn't start an installation on one and move on to the next—I had to do them in series.

He hadn't even told me what packages to install.

I was pretty sure I had just been given busywork.

I connected the first server, powered it up, inserted the CentOS DVD, and started the installation, clicking through the interminable prompts. What language did I want to use? English. What was my time zone? American/New_York, of course. Did the system clocks use UTC? I didn't know, but I could compensate for that later by setting the time manually or with NTP. Did I want to erase the hard disks? Why yes, yes I did. How did I want to partition them? I let the installer do it on its own. Did I want to use logical volume management? Sure, why not, it wasn't my system anyhow. What root password should I use? I typed it in twice, and it complained: “password” is a dictionary word, was I sure I was dense enough to use it? No, but Sarim was. What groups of packages did I want? And so on and so forth, until I was faced with a blue progress bar that inched across the screen at a rate just this side of glacial while the banner at the top of of the screen helpfully flashed random advice about CentOS that I had already learned long ago.

 _Five more servers to go..._ I thought to myself. _And I have to type all that in again_.

An idea popped into my head.

_Or maybe not...doesn't the CentOS installer auto-generate a kickstart file from a manual install?_

I tapped my tennis shoes on the floor tiles, waiting for the installation to finish. When it was done, I removed the DVD, rebooted the server, and logged in as root, searching for the installation log. Sure enough, in /root/...

**-rw-------. 1 root root 1.7K Dec 10 2011 /root/anaconda-ks.cfg**

_Hah. Take that._ Grinning, I took my flash drive from my laptop case, inserted it into the front of the server, mounted the partition, and copied the kickstart file to the drive. Now I wouldn't have to enter all that information over and over again for the other five servers. I could just tell the CentOS installer to grab the answers to all of its prompts from that configuration file, which had been generated from my input for the first installation.

It turned an hour-long project into a twenty-five-minute one.

When the last one finished, I let out a quiet little cheer, yanked my flash drive, and went off to tell Sarim.

Problem was, I couldn't find him.

“Hello?” I called, uncertain. My voice wavered and vanished, overpowered by the steady roar of the server room. “Sarim? Hello?”

I wandered down one of the aisles. The racks of equipment rose up on either side of me, buzzing and humming and whirring. It reminded me of the 94th street library in a way, but the aisles between the shelves were wider and the servers were much, much noisier than books.

Down near the end of the aisle, I paused. Most of the racks around me were neatly organized, with cables neatly bundled and routed to each server. But the second rack from the end was a little different. There were only a few pieces of equipment. There was a large network switch, a heavy-duty router, and just below that, a thin black rack server. Two yellow network cables ran between the switch and the server, and instead of being neatly bundled at the side of the rack like all the other cables leading to the switch and router, the excess cabling had been stuffed in the narrow gaps between the pieces of equipment.

 _Daaamn_ , I thought. _That's an IFT 2452 managed 48-port gigabit switch_. I was just about drooling. _The CPU in that thing is even faster than the one in my old desktop. I wonder if Connetrix ever surpluses any of their old—_

“Hey!” Sarim yelled from the end of the aisle. “Robin, what are you doing?”

I looked up, blushing. “I—uh, I've just like, never _seen_ a real Ethernet switch before. Is this thing running IFOS 5? Does it support—”

He took several long steps down the aisle and motioned me towards him. “Look, get away from that, it's delicate.”

“I...all right,” I said, glancing at the switch. It looked pretty damn sturdy to me.

 _He doesn't want me near it,_ I thought. _Why?_ But I obeyed and walked away from it.

“Don't go down that row again,” Sarim said. He put one large hand on my back and guided me away from that aisle. There were beads of sweat on his balding head. “That stuff is trouble-prone, okay? Sensitive to static electricity, or something, I don't know, but it doesn't work right when people are near it.”

I had to work very hard to hold in the laugh. That was one of the lousiest excuses I'd ever heard. Hadn't this guy heard of grounding? But I kept those thoughts to myself and said, “Sure, I don't wanna break anything. I was just trying to find you. Got those CentOS installs done already.”

I showed him the shiny new operating systems on one of the servers. He nodded, then thanked me by directing me towards the back of the server room, where there was another desk. This one was stacked with broken servers and other decrepit equipment.

“See if you can salvage any of this,” he said, and he left again.

 _Well..._ I thought, _at least it's better than installing new operating systems on a bunch of machines._ I cleared a workspace, sat down, lugged one of the servers down from the stack, and popped the cover. A giant cloud of dust rose up to sting my eyes.

_Or maybe not..._

I tried powering on the machine. It froze halfway through it's boot cycle. My instincts said bad RAM, so I turned the server off and started removing memory sticks, two at a time, to see if there was a faulty module somewhere. As I worked, I thought about that network switch. Why had Sarim reacted so strongly to me being near it? There must've been something he didn't want me to see. Those two loose cables—maybe they weren't supposed to be there. Maybe that rack server shouldn't have been connected to the switch. Maybe it was some sort of top-secret thing, a government thing.

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to sneak back and examine it closer—but if Sarim caught me, I doubted my internship at Connetrix would last much longer. I'd have to wait and tell John about what I'd found. He'd know what to do.

John _always_ knew what to do.

 

#####


	22. Chapter 22

**December 2011**

 

“...you've got that girl working with you now?” asked Detective Carter. The incredulity in her voice was obvious even over the phone. “John, she was almost a _murder victim._ ”

“'Almost' doesn't count, Joss,” said John as he rifled through the many drawers of Melissa Lee's massive computer desk. So far, he had found nothing more alarming than a bottle of antacids, though hell if he knew what the various circuit boards and other computer components were for.

“Besides,” he added, “Elizabeth was eager to help out.”

“Right,” Carter said. “'Cause, you know, nobody's got a problem saying _no_ to the guy that saved their life.”

“You do a pretty good job at it.”

She scoffed. “That's 'cause I'm a cop. I get to use the big words, like _no_ , and _no way,_ and _are you crazy_?” A static-laden sigh. “Don't answer that. Look, so help me, John, if Elizabeth Ruben gets hurt, I _will_ shoot you—”

“She'll be fine,” John said. He glanced up at the computer monitor; the hard drive was nearly done cloning. “She can defend herself pretty well now. Elizabeth has a very good self-defense instructor.”

“Uh-huh. Does his name start with _J_ and end with _ohn_?”

“As a matter of fact...yes. John. John Rooney. You should meet him—I gotta say, Joss, he's very dashing. I think you'd hit off well with him.”

John could hear Carter's eyes rolling in their sockets. “Well, you go tell this dashing Rooney the Rogue that he can just—wait a second. Conkin's coming out of her apartment. She's headed for her car. Gotta go. Try not to drop any bodies today, John!”

“I always _try_ , Joss. Stay safe.”

“You too. Fusco and I will check in later. Don't you make my day job any harder.”

Reese chuckled as the phone disconnected, then returned his attention to Melissa Lee's desktop computer. The drive was encrypted; all Reese could do was to clone it and hope Finch could make sense of the data back at the Library.

He took one last look around Melissa Lee's flat as the computer finished copying the last few gigabytes of data to Reese's external hard drive. There was little out of the ordinary to be found in the ultra precise, meticulously organized apartment. Everything was arranged with laser-guided precision. The kitchen had been clipped out of a home magazine and dropped into place; the living room had been transplanted from IKEA; and the bedroom, with its white carpet and wine-colored quilt set, was so symmetrical it was downright frightening. There wasn't a speck of dust, not anywhere. All of the closet hangers were facing the same direction and the books in the tiny bookcase were organized by author. The containers in the refrigerator were neatly stacked from largest to smallest. The envelopes in the trash can had been sliced open with the kind of care and attention usually reserved by surgeons.

There wasn't a single object out of place in the whole apartment, and that alone set Reese on edge.

When the drive finished cloning, Reese disconnected the external hard drive, yanked the flash drive, and shut down the computer, making sure everything had been left precisely as he found it. He opened the front door a crack to make sure no one was watching too closely. Satisfied, he locked the doorknob, then stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him.

He waited until he had settled into his new car of the day before calling Samantha Shaw.

“ _You_ ,” she said, calm as could be, as soon as the line connected. The ice in her voice would've made most people have a heart attack on the spot.

But John Reese was not most people.

“Hello, Shaw,” Reese said, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. “You sound cheerful this morning.”

“Next time, _you_ get the geek's apartment,” she snarled. “I am _wallowing_ in _filth_.”

“You wanna have a rematch on the coin flip?”

“You rigged it, didn't you?”

“Shaw, I'm hurt.”

“No, you're not—but you _will_ be.”

“I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that you didn't find anything exciting. No guns...no C4...no incriminating emails...?”

“Gee. You know what, I think I might've missed something in this dinky breadbox. Lemme go check again under that disgusting rag on the bed. There might be a sniper rifle hidden under there. Or a tank.”

“I'm guessing it wasn't a gun-cleaning rag.”

“Geeks are horrible people,” Shaw said.

“Finch is listening, you know.”

“At least he bathes more often than you. This Andrew kid?—I don't think he's showered since last year.” A pause, the sound of something rustling. “Oh,” Shaw groaned, long and drawn-out. “ _That_ is gross...”

“Sounds like you need some backup,” Reese said.

“Oh, by all means. Come join me, I _really_ need some target practice.”

“I'll send Fusco,” Reese said. “He can dance better than me.”

“Fine, whatever,” she said. “I'm getting out of here in five minutes. I cloned Andrew's hard drive—it's encrypted. Probably a bunch of weird emu scat porn on there. Why's everybody got encrypted hard drives on this case? Are we dealing with Finch's family?”

“No. If it was Finch's family, we'd never find their home addresses.”

“Right.” Another pause, another sigh of disgust. “You know what? I changed my mind. I'm leaving _now._ I'll meet you at HQ. After a dozen showers.” She raised her voice and said, “Finch? Hey, Finch, you there? I deserve araise. And a new pair of boots.”

The phone clicked as a third voice joined the conversation. Harold Finch said, “Considering your earlier comment regarding individuals with above-average technical proficiency and intelligence, Miss Shaw, I will have to consider your requests most carefully. Hmm. No.”

Shaw growled.

“I'm _not_ bringing back doughnuts,” she said.

Smiling ever so slightly, Reese shook his head and drove on.

 

#####

 

I took my lunch break at about 1PM, wandering downstairs to the lobby in search of a vending machine. After a lot of fruitless looking around, I broke down and asked Daryl, who directed me to the hallway leading towards the bathrooms. Several garish vending machines had been sequestered in a little alcove about halfway down, right next to a crusty chrome drinking fountain.

I considered the selections.

 _What does Robin drink besides tea_? I wondered. _What does she eat in public?_

“Excuse me, Miss McCartney,” said a soft voice in my ear. Startled, I turned. John stood next to me, and yet I hadn't heard him come down the corridor. Before I could open my mouth and blow my cover—I had been about to say, _Hey, John!_ —he pulled out his badge and flashed it. “Detective Stills,” he said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

I said, “Oh—um, of course. Detective.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Keep playing your part.” He tilted his head and led me by my arm back towards the lobby. Daryl looked at us with wide eyes, but put his head down when John glanced in his direction.

“Um, is this like, gonna take long?” I asked.

“Shouldn't be more than a few minutes,” said John—Detective Stills, I mean. He pushed open the glass entrance doors and led me out into the chilly afternoon. He didn't say another word until we were a few dozen feet away from the entrance to the building.

“Not bad,” he said, eyes glinting. “Now. Have you seen anything suspicious today, ma'am?”

“Yeah, actually. There's this rack of equipment towards the back of the server room. Sarim got _really_ jumpy when I went up to it.”

“What kind of equipment?” Stills said.

“A managed gigabit switch, a router, and a rack server. The thing that caught my eye was—whoever did all the other racks was all anal about routing the cables nicely. But this server had two network cables connected to the switch and the cables were dangling all loose down the front of the rack. Somebody tried stuffing them in the gaps to keep them out of the way, but they didn't do very well.” I glanced around, lowered my voice. “And when I looked closer? Sarim got all _nervous.”_

That got John's eyebrows raised. “Maybe the equipment isn't supposed to be there.”

“Or at least, I'm not supposed to know about. I'm wondering if it's an NSA tap or something. Like on the news—PRISM and the ISP surveillance thing and all that? It's the kind of thing they do. They knock on your door with a national security letter and if you don't give 'em information on the customer they want, they say 'screw you, we're Feds' and install something to snoop on _everybody_.”

“I think they're more subtle than that these days,” Stills said. He seemed to be holding back a smile. “How exactly did Sarim react when you went near it?”

“He told me it was delicate and that if I looked at it funny it would break, so don't go near it. Gave me a really lousy excuse.”

Stills peered over his shoulder towards the front doors, then gazed up at a metal pole a few feet to my left. There was a security camera mounted near the top, the kind with the rotating gimbals, and I swear, it was _watching_ us. Like, pointed right at Stills and me.

“Did Sarim seem desperate?” Stills said, staring at the camera. He tilted his head. So help me, if he started waving...

“Yeah, kinda. He was sweating, and he wasn't when I walked in there. You got a camera fetish or something?”

He ignored the last remark. “Sounds like Sarim doesn't want you to know the equipment is there.”

“Well, you're not supposed to tell _anybody_ about an NSA tap if you get one of those security letters.”

“There's a difference between not telling people about something and panicking when someone goes near it. Nothing wrong with saying 'I can't talk about it, don't ask'.” Stills gazed down at me. “What do you think, Robin? What do your instincts say?”

I chewed my lip. “I...I think he overreacted—I'm guessing the server isn't an NSA thing, otherwise he would've just told me not to ask. So maybe it's something illegal.” I tapped my foot against the sidewalk, deep in thought. “If I could connect my laptop to the switch's management port,” I said slowly, “I could tell it to mirror the ports connected to the server and see what sort of network traffic is going to it. But not while Sarim is around.”

“Can it be done remotely?” Stills asked.

“I don't think so.”

“Then we'll just have to visit after hours,” Stills said.

“You mispronounced 'break in'.”

“I'm a detective, Miss McCartney. I would never suggest such a thing.” He smiled, reached into his suit jacket, and pulled out a plastic card.

“What's this?” I said, taking it from him. It was about the size and shape of a credit card; plain white plastic, no markings. The edges felt freshly cut.

“Cloned RFID card. It'll get you into the building and server room. All the workers are gone by 7 o'clock but the cleaning staff stays here until 11. Leave something behind in the office to set up an excuse. Something not too critical. Your glasses, maybe. You get home, try to read—they're not on your head, they're not in your pocket—”

“Yeah yeah, I get it.”

“Go in at about 9:30PM. I'll be waiting for you at the third floor office. You comfortable with this?”

“Uhm, yeah,” I said, wishing I felt as confident as I sounded.

“Good.” He patted me on the shoulder. “I think that's all for now, Miss McCartney. You can go back inside now.”

 

#####

 

Just before clocking out at 5PM, I took off my glasses and set them under my monitor. Glanced around to make sure no one had seen. Logged out of my workstation. I kept my head down and didn't look anyone in the eyes as I left Connetrix, driving back to my apartment to wait.

There were Chinese take-out boxes on my table again when I walked into the apartment. Still warm—John had been here less than thirty minutes ago, I guessed. I ate like a goat and fixed a cup of tea. My nutritional needs satisfied, I focused my attention on my laptop. Practiced setting up the network sniffer. Had it dump the output to a file. I must've practiced a dozen times—I didn't want any surprises in the server room.

Once I was satisfied I could bring up the network sniffing utility in less than thirty seconds, I began looking for other ways to pass the time. There was a small bookshelf tucked away next to the bed, and it looked like there was at least one Frederick Pohl book there. So I set a timer on my cell phone to ring at 9PM, picked up _Gateway_ , laid back on my bed, crossed one leg over the other, and began to read.

Even with the book, the wait was _very_ long. I'd never been very good at waiting. For the first hour or so I kept glancing at my cell phone to see that it had only been five minutes or so since the last time I'd checked. But after awhile, I became engrossed in the story, and I returned to this universe only occasionally to check the time.

I laughed aloud when I got to the line: _So we made the time pass, not easily and certainly not fast_.

Too damn true.

At 9PM, I snacked on a little more chow-mien, then packed my laptop. I realized that I would need a network cable, but that had been taken care of for me—there was one neatly coiled in the side pouch of the laptop case. I took a deep breath. Grabbed my keys.

The drive to Connetrix felt even longer than the wait at the apartment, and by the time I got to the office, I was shaking. The dark building seemed foreboding and massive in the night. There were no other cars in the parking lot, or at least, none on this side of the building.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the first entry on speed dial—John's number.

“Good evening, Robin,” he said. I closed my eyes. Oh, how I wished he'd been there in the car with me, perhaps squeezing my shoulder ever so slightly in reassurance, but his voice, distorted and diminished by the earpiece, was about as best as I was going to get until I made it to the third floor.

“I'm at Connetrix,” I said, doing my damnedest to keep my voice steady.

“And I'm inside,” John said. “Keep the line open; I'll be able to hear you. The cleaning staff shouldn't give you any trouble. But if something does go wrong, stick to your story and apologize a lot—it throws people off.”

“Okay. Okay.” Another deep breath. I made sure the hard plastic card was in my pocket. Double-checked my laptop. Slung the bag over my shoulder, pushed open the car door, and stepped out into the night.

“Don't worry, Robin,” said John. “All you gotta do is meet up with me on the third floor.”

The walkway was illuminated by streetlights—thank God; I would've fainted if I'd had to walk in the dark. It took a lot of effort not to glance around like a criminal as I made my way to the front doors. All I could hear was the sound of my shoes hitting the concrete walk, the thud of my heart against my ribs, the harsh buzz of the glaring white lights overhead. The air was cold, very cold, but I hardly noticed.

“How come we're not going in together?” I whispered.

John said, “Because you have a legitimate excuse to visit the building late—I don't. I can break in; you can't. Besides, this is good practice for you. Doing scary things builds character.”

“I'm not scared!” I growled.

“I didn't say you were. But sneaking into a building after hours to do nefarious things can be scary the first few times. Just remember—you're a lot less important than you think. People won't pay much attention to you unless you draw attention to yourself.”

When I reached the doors, I pulled out the card and held it to the little black reader mounted to the doorframe. For an instant, I worried that the card wasn't going to work—but then the light on the reader flashed green and the doors clicked—and I was in the lobby.

And someone else was there.

The custodian looked up from where he was sweeping into a little dustpan. “Hi,” he said, disinterested.

I hoped he couldn't hear my thudding heart.

“I, um, forgot my glasses—I'm just gonna—” I pointed to the lift, but the custodian had already gone back to his sweeping.

 _Don't run, don't run_ , I told myself. The lift door slid aside when I tapped the call button and I stepped inside. It was very quiet once the door closed again, at least until the hydraulic pump screeched into life. I'd probably just alerted the whole building that I was here.

 _Next time,_ I thought, _take the stairs_.

The third floor was very quiet and very dark. Only a few of the inordinate florescent lights were lit, and the deeper recesses of the office were black. My knees shook and my stomach churned. I was reluctant to step out of the bright lift cab, but I did—one foot, then the other.

“I'm here,” I whispered as the door trundled shut behind me.

“So am I,” said John. There was movement to my left, and he swam out of the darkness like a goddamn bat. “How did you like your first infiltration, Robin?”

“I really don't wanna talk about it,” I said, looking around. The areas of the office furthest away from the windows and lights were so very dark. I had to keep reminding myself that the blackness wasn't going to rush inward and devour me.

John pushed something into my hand; something cold, metal, cylindrical, with a textured grip.

I looked down. It was a flashlight; a real tiny one; the kind that cops liked to carry. I pointed it at the floor and clicked it on. For such a tiny thing, it was spectacularly bright. I smiled, clicked it off, and put it in my pocket. I didn't need it just yet—but its presence was reassuring.

“Are you psychic?” I whispered, trying not to think about all the times I'd been thinking inappropriate thoughts about John.

“No. But I know you don't like the dark.” He tilted his head towards the server room door. We made our way towards it, sticking to the more well-lit areas of the cubical maze.

Ten feet from the door, John stopped suddenly.

“Wait,” he said, holding up his hand. He tapped his ear. “Yeah, Finch?”

“What do you mean, 'wait'?” I whispered. I heard a faint sound, like the buzz of a particularly fat and ill-tempered mosquito. It took me a second to realize it was John's earpiece. John listened for several seconds, then said, “What about Shaw? Is she close enough to help?” More buzzing. “I'll be there. Tell Carter to hold on.”

He looked at me and said, “Robin, there's an emergency—one of our other cases just went south. I have to go handle it. Go back to the apartment; we'll try again tomorrow.”

I stared at the server room door. It was _right there_. Less than a dozen feet away. I pointed at it.

“John, we're _that_ close. I can—I can handle the rest.”

“I don't like leaving you here alone.”

“I-I'll be fine,” I said, while the more logical part of my brain contemplated curling up into a little ball and hiding under one of the desks. “ _Please_ , John. I can do it.”

He stared at me. I squirmed under the scrutiny.

“All right,” John finally said. “I'll only be gone about thirty minutes. Get in, get out as fast as you can. I'll call you when the other case is handled.”

“Okay,” I said. I watched him walk away until he became one with the dark. And then I was all alone in a creepy unlit office.

 _You, Robin, are an idiot,_ I thought to myself. _You should listen to him and get_ out.

But I forced myself to cover the remaining distance to the server room door. Pulled out the card again. Miracle of miracles, the door lock clicked. I pushed open the door and tried not to think about how I was _so_ not ready for this.

Unlike the office, the server room was fully lit, and it was loud as ever. Neither of these did much to make it less creepy. In fact, knowing that I was alone in a building while surrounded by so much noisy equipment made me even more nervous. If I had to scream, nobody would hear me. I felt sick. Now I was wishing I hadn't ate so much, because throwing up was becoming a very real possibility.

This was unreal. I felt like Michael Weston, or maybe James Bond. Like a goddamn _spy_ behind enemy lines.

I glanced up and down the aisles as I passed them until I found the one with the mysterious equipment. I walked down the row and stopped in front of the rack containing the network switch.

 _Static electricity, my ass,_ I thought, shrugging off the laptop case. I knelt down, pulled out the laptop and cable. Connected the cable to the management port on the switch and the other end to the laptop. Pulled an adjacent server out partway on its rails, set the laptop on top. Brought up a web browser and connected to the switch's management interface. It asked for a password.

My heart sank, but before I could start typing in random passwords, my cell phone buzzed.

**From: (Unknown Caller)**

_**Switch model and serial no. ?** _

_He's handling an emergency and he can still text? How many thumbs does he have_?

I found a faded, curling sticker on the front of the switch and laboriously typed the serial number into the phone. A minute later, another text came through:

**From: (Unknown Caller)**

**Override Credentials:**

**User: IFT_admin**

**Password: eW91IG11c3QgYmUgYm9yZWQK**

I typed in the password and sure enough, I had access to the switch's admin page. It only took a minute or two to configure my port to mirror the data going to and from the server, and soon my laptop was sucking it up like a virtual vacuum cleaner.

“All right,” I mumbled. “Lessee what's going on here.”

I fired up Wireshark and started analyzing the data. One of the network interfaces was passing _way_ too much traffic—almost 500Mbps. A close look at the switch's admin page showed why: somebody had configured one of the server's ports to mirror _all_ traffic going through the switch, which meant that the server got a copy of every single bit and byte that passed through this part of the network.

And since the switch was connected to a very large router...

 _Maybe this_ is _a tap,_ I thought. _I bet that's one of the edge routers._ All _of the customers' traffic must go through this switch...or at least, a lot of it probably does...so the server gets a copy of_ everything.

I examined the data going through the other server port. There was much less. It was all destined for one IP address—and the payload was encrypted.

 _OpenVPN?_ I thought. _Really?_

I did a whois search on the IP address. It was registered to a Lachesis Corporation based out of New Jersey. _Weird name,_ I thought. _So...who put this server here_?

I tried using SSH to access it, but it rebuffed me with another password prompt. I doubted John would be able to find a way around that one. Aside from a hilarious vulnerability in a key generation routine—a bug that had been fixed years ago—SSH tended to be pretty bulletproof.

 _So,_ I thought. _They're grabbing all the traffic and communicating with a mothership somewhere via a VPN. Maybe they're forwarding interesting sniffed data over the tunnel, but there's not a lot of traffic on that interface, so they're either storing the rest of the sniffed data locally or discarding it. But why is it here? And who set it up?_

I wondered what to do next, but as it turns out, the decision was pretty moot.

Something flickered at the periphery of my vision. I turned my head and there was Sarim, standing at the mouth of the aisle about ten feet away. My heart froze, then accelerated from zero to panic in less than a second.

“Robin?” said Sarim. “What in the _hell_ are you doing here?”

 

#####


	23. Chapter 23

**December 2011**

 

Patty Conkin, at first glance, appeared to be a perfectly reasonable and completely un-murder-prone middle-aged woman. Short, slightly dumpy, with straight blond hair, a tan overcoat, too many earrings, and a pair of leather boots that probably cost more than one of Elizabeth Ruben's computers, the woman looked like somebody's rich and stuffy aunt.

Except for the assault rifle in her hands.

She clearly wasn't very experienced with the weapon. She fumbled with the clip. Tried inserting it backwards. It wouldn't fit, but she kept jamming it in the slot, hoping that by some miracle it would slide home. The laws of physics were not feeling miraculous today. She swore, threw the clip on the ground next to three empties.

Reese, like a panther, had plenty of time to sneak up next to her in the shrub-riddled darkness beneath the elevated highway.

“Hi,” he said.

Patty Conkin whirled around, leveling the rifle at Reese's chest, but she had forgotten a minor detail: it had no ammunition. The gun clicked once, twice. Reese stepped forward and grabbed the rifle right out of her hands.

“If you're gonna shoot a gun,” he said, “you really should know how to reload it.” A little louder, he said, “All clear.”

Detective Carter slid out from behind the thick concrete column with her gun held before her. A moment later, Fusco crawled out from behind the abandoned car. He was covered in dirt and dust.

Patty Conkin stared at Reese with wide, wide eyes. It seemed she was too shocked to move, at least until Detective Carter neared, handcuffs at the ready. She ran, or tried to—Reese's hand shot out and clamped around her upper arm.

“Patty Conkin,” Detective Carter said, “ _you_ are under arrest for attempted murder, grant theft, assault on a police officer.” The cold anger in her voice was like a deadly undertow beneath a placid, smooth surface. Carter yanked Conkin's hands behind her back. The woman winced but said nothing. There came the sound of a ratchet, then two. “You have the right to keep your lying piehole shut. You can bet your BMW that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you somehow cannot afford an attorney, the State will provide you with one...”

Fusco waddled over to Reese as Carter led the hapless woman to the police cruiser.

“The hell did you come from?” Fusco said, waving his arm at the steep dirt embankment that went up to kiss the underside of the highway. Conkin had been backed into a metaphorical corner.

“Hello to you too, Lionel,” Reese drawled.

The portly detective shook his head. “I know, I know. 'At least I'm not late, right?'”

“Pretty much. Is Carter okay?”

“Yeah, she's fine. I'm fine too, thanks.” He eyed the rifle in Reese's arms, disquieted by the way he cradled it like a sleeping child, or maybe like an exceptionally deadly kitten.

“You gonna keep that thing?” he said.

“I'll add it to my collection, Lionel,” Reese drawled. “It's a nice gun. Unless you want it?”

Fusco rolled his eyes. “You can have it.”

Reese's phone rang, but before he could tap his earpiece, the call connected by itself.

“Mr. Reese?” came Finch's voice. “We have a situation. It seems our Mr. Sarim has encountered Miss Ruben in the Connetrix server room. Miss Shaw is still fifteen minutes out—you need to get over there _now.”_

“On my way,” Reese said. He turned and ran for his car, leaving a sputtering Lionel Fusco in the dust.

“Hey, you're welcome for cornering this psycho!” he shouted after Reese. Shaking his head again, he made his way through the thorny weeds towards the police cruiser.

 

#####

 

My mouth moved, but the only thing that came out was a tiny squeak. My brain had just short-circuited like a bad ATX power supply, leaving only one thought stuck on repeat: _oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—_

“I—I was just—”

As I struggled to come up with a plausible explanation, I saw Sarim's eyes move from me to the laptop balanced on the server near my elbow. The surprise on his face morphed into suspicion and his eyes grew cold.

“The hell are you doing?” he said. “What—what are you doing with that laptop? Did you connect it to the switch?” He took a step closer, and my heart leaped into my throat. I took a step backwards. “I _told_ you to stay away from that—”

John's voice echoed in my head.

_...apologize a lot...it throws people off..._

“L-look,” I said, holding up my hands. “I'm like, s-so sorry, okay? But—but I—” An idea popped into my head, and I didn't even bother thinking it through, I just ran with it. “I admit it. I _really_ needed the bandwidth, okay? I _know_ I'm not supposed to do it, but I admit it.”

Confusion. Squinted eyes. “Admit what?”

“My—my ISP throttles torrent traffic, and I get like, less than a hundred kilobits per second, so I figured, we're on a gigabit line, right? And—and who's gonna miss a few episodes of _Star Quest_ , right? S-so I thought that if I came here late at night when nobody's really using any bandwidth—”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the laptop screen blank itself. My legs were trembling, but I forced my voice to stay steady and just a little bit snotty for good measure.

“—then I could borrow a little bandwidth, like a _tiny_ bit, because all my friends talk about _Star Quest_ and I don't have a TV and I can't keep up with what they're saying and—”

A look of incredulity slowly blossomed on Sarim's face.

“You're _torrenting_ TV shows? On our connection?”

“Well, _yeah,_ I mean, it's not like anybody's gonna notice, right? I mean, it's only a _few_ shows.”

He stood there. It looked like he couldn't decide if he wanted to move or not. Then, like a bull, he stalked towards me—no, towards the laptop.

 _Oh shit,_ I thought. _I left the Wireshark window up! He'll see the packet analysis!_

But it was too late. He pushed me out of the way and brushed his thick fingers against the laptop's touchpad. The screen flashed once, lit up. My heart skipped a beat and I wondered if I could make a run for it while Sarim was distracted.

Sarim stared at the screen and didn't say anything.

There were three windows up—but _not_ any of the windows I had been using before Sarim had found me. There was a web browser displaying a popular torrent search site, a torrent client with several torrents queued up, and a file browser showing an incredible amount of folders—all of which had suspiciously not-quite-legitimate titles, such as OUTLANDER (GRATUITOUS JC FACE EDITION) [DVDRip-HQ] and BURN NOTICE SEASON 4 FULL [TVRip-720p z00DAAAX].

 _What the hell?_ I thought, stymied.

Sarim must've had the same thought, but he recovered faster than me. He reached out, slammed the laptop lid closed—I winced—yanked the network cable, coiled it, tossed it down on top of the laptop, and handed it to me.

“Get out of here,” he said. His voice was entirely too calm. He leveled a finger at my chest. “And if I _ever_ catch you in here doing something like this again, I swear, Melissa will fire you so fast it'll make your head spin. Got it?”

“Y-y-yah,” I said, nodding quickly. He pointed down the aisle in the general direction of the server room door. Tucking the laptop under my arm, I scooped up the laptop case, slung it over my shoulder, and walked towards the mouth of the aisle. Didn't dare make eye contact with Sarim. I had to force my feet to keep moving. If I paused for so much as an instant, I would surely collapse.

 

#####

 

In a darkened library, miles away, Harold Finch let out a long, deep breath and adjusted his glasses. Thank goodness he had connected to Elizabeth Ruben's phone at that crucial moment. Had he realized her plight even seconds later, he would not have had time to obfuscate Miss Ruben's activities on the laptop...

 _Thank goodness,_ he thought. _Disaster averted_.

He reached for his tea cup. The tea had long since turned cold. He downed it in one gulp, then set the cup aside and brought up several terminal windows to view the port scan progress on the mysterious IP address discovered by Miss Ruben.

Before he could browse through the terminal window log, a voice crackled in his earpiece, which he had left connected to Elizabeth Ruben's cell phone. Finch's eyes widened.

_Oh dear. That's not good at all!_

He wasted no time in dialing John Reese's number.

 

#####

 

“Wait,” Sarim said behind me. I froze. Couldn't help it. It was like he had just command my leg muscles to quit moving, even though his voice was hardly louder than the servers around us.

“What is it?” I said, turning around like a little kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I was _so_ close to the end of the aisle. I wanted to run for it. Freedom was just a few yards away. Okay, and down the lift. And out the lobby doors. And down the long front walk to the car.

All right, so maybe running was a bad idea...

“How did you get in here?” Sarim said.

I gulped. “I—the door—it was—”

“The door needs a keycard,” he said slowly. “You don't _have_ a keycard.”

The world was crumbling around me. All of a sudden I was ten years old and Mama had just caught me lying about hiding my brother's favorite stuffed cat. “I...it was—“

Sarim reached behind his back. When his hand came out, it was holding a pistol. For the second time in less than a year, I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.

 _You're kidding me,_ I thought. An instant later, my brain started its _oh my god_ loop again.

“Robin,” Sarim said, “give me the laptop.”

I clutched it to my chest. “No, it's mine.”

“Are you serious? I have a _gun_. Give me the damn laptop.”

I don't remember deciding to run, but all of a sudden I found myself barreling full tilt down the large aisle that ran the length of the room. Rows and rows of equipment blurred by. Behind me, Sarim swore. I heard shoes pounding on the raised floor panels—not mine; I was light as a mouse, but Sarim was built like a truck.

The server room door was maybe fifteen feet ahead. I engaged my afterburners, forced my legs to move faster.

Sarim ran out from behind the very last row of equipment and flung his arm wide, blocking the door with his body.

“Give it to me!” he roared, pointing the gun right at my face. I shifted direction as fast as momentum allowed, probably leaving burned rubber and skid marks behind on the floor panels as I darted into one of the side aisles. I reached the end and glanced behind me just in time to see Sarim raise the gun. I ducked and ran to the left, hugging the narrow space between the wall and the ends of the racks.

There was a loud _pop_ and something hit the plaster where my head had been a few instants before.

 _Shit, shit, shit,_ I thought. _Where's the emergency exit?_

I ran. There were more pops, two of them. One of them hit the end of the rack ahead of me and tore through a thick bundle of network cables. The other one whistled by my ear and thudded into the wall down at the end of the server room. I changed direction again and ducked down one of the rows. Ran out into the center aisle again, tried running for the door, but Sarim had predicted where I'd be and he burst out from one of the rows ahead of me, forcing me to run down one of the side aisles across the way.

It was a dead end.

Gasping, I spun around. Sarim was less than five feet away and he had the gun pointed at my face.

The first shot went wide—barely. I could _hear_ it whistle past my ear. Squeezing my eyes shut, I held my laptop up to protect my face—a token gesture; I knew how fast a bullet went and how much it took to stop a—

There was a pop, and the laptop jerked towards me. I winced away. Another pop. Another jerk. Something sparked, burning my fingers. Sarim swore. I peeked over the edge of the laptop to see the gun wavering in his hand.

 _He hit the laptop,_ I realized, not yet daring to wonder how I was still alive. _And that made him mad. He wants it_.

So I gave it to him. I threw it at his face, putting as much muscle into it as I could.

It was hilarious to see, in a way. At least, it would've been, if it hadn't been for the whole about-to-get-shot thing. Sarim's eyes went wide and he stumbled forward as if he wanted to catch it. His gun swung away from me. I dove towards him, wrapped one hand around his arm, and started smashing his wrist into the racks of equipment, hoping he'd drop the gun. With my other hand, I jabbed at his eyes.

He screamed. The gun went off— _bam, bam, ba-bam_ , deafeningly, like thunder just inches away from my ears, but he didn't drop the gun. Each bullet went into the racks around us. Sarim knocked my hand away from his face. He looked me right in the eyes and I could tell that he really, really wanted me dead.

Sarim was far stronger than I had realized. Without the element of surprise, I was outmatched. He threw himself against me, pinning my body against one of the racks. I did the instinctual thing—I raised my knee as hard as I could, aimed right between his legs. It worked, kinda. He gasped and stumbled just enough for me to slip away towards the mouth of the aisle, but I tripped on the laptop and went sprawling to meet the cold floor tiles. Gasping, I tried to stand. Sarim kicked me in the back and I collapsed flat on the floor with a yelp.

“Look at me,” he said.

Groaning, I rolled over on my back. Sarim had the eeriest, calmest look on his face and his gun was pointed at my heart. I bit back a whimper. Did my best to push myself away with my palms, but they kept slipping on the tiles. Sarim walked forward as I backed away from him, inch by inch.

“Who are you?” he said. “FBI? CIA? NSA?” I stayed silent, still doing my best to get away from this monster. I had retreated a little ways down one of the side aisles. Sarim didn't follow me in. He stood at the mouth of the aisle, his massive bulk outlined in white by the florescents on the ceiling.

 _You're dead_ , whispered a little voice in my head. _D-e-a-d._

_Yeah, well—I got another six months out of life..._

_You're gonna die. It's gonna hurt. Oh god, I've heard that gunshots hurt. Where's John? He said a half hour—it's gotta be at least a half hour by now._

“You're stubborn,” Sarim said. “That's okay. I don't need you. I'll salvage what I can from your laptop. By the time your agency sends somebody else, I'll be long gone.”

He pointed the gun right at my face. I forced myself not to wince, not to look away. I stared straight into Sarim's eyes.

 _Distract him,_ I thought desperately. _John_ has _to be on his way back. Buy time!_

“Can I ask _you_ something 'fore I die?” I said. Despite my best efforts, my voice shook.

Sarim chuckled. “You can ask. Will I answer?” He made a long, elaborate shrug. “Dunno.”

“What's the server for?”

The chuckle turned into a laugh, cruel and deep. “I knew you were too curious for your own good from the moment I laid eyes on you. The server? You'll never know.”

“Please?”

“No. Sorry. It used to be that the dead could be trusted with secrets, but you just have to be so careful these days...”

His finger twitched.

He grinned.

He was gone.

Like lightning, a tall, dark blur appeared out of nowhere, ramming into Sarim from the side. The impact knocked him out of sight. There was a gunshot; a light fixture shattered. There were the sounds of a struggle. Screams. A thud.

Heart pounding like a jackhammer, I pulled myself up using one of the racks and staggered out into the main aisle.

Sarim was lying in a heap on the ground. John stood over him. He turned to me and said, “Hello, Ellie.”

I didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know what to do. I stood there, gaping like an idiot, as John walked over and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Are you hurt?”

Speechless, I shook my head.

There was movement near the door. Two people entered. I recognized the woman as Detective Carter. Next to her was a shorter man—not quite fat, but definitely wider than most. He had short, curly brown hair and a long tan overcoat.

“Ellie,” John said when the detectives neared, “meet Detective Lionel Fusco. You've met Detective Carter already.”

“Hi,” I said. I wasn't sure what else to say. My life was still flashing before my eyes like a ghostly movie reel.

John added, “Fusco works with Detective Carter and me. You can trust him, especially if there's doughnuts involved.”

The detective rolled his eyes. To Reese, he said, “Look, cops are gonna be all over this place in about ten minutes. You two had better get out of here.”

“We will, Lionel. But first—Ellie, can you show me the server you found?”

I led him over to the strange rack at the back of the server room. John looked at it, then yanked the cables and pulled the server out of the rack.

“You're _stealing_ it?” I asked.

“No,” John said, tucking it under his arm like it weighed nothing at all. “Just borrowing.” He grasped my shoulder, squeezed gently. “Let's get out of here.”

Those were the best five words I'd heard in a long time.

On the way out, I spotted a piece of black plastic on the pristine white floor tiles near one of the side aisles. I peered down the row. “Oh,” I cried. “My laptop!”

It had landed lid-up a few feet away. I rushed forward to pick it up. Turned it over. There was a ragged two-inch hole in the back, a little to the left of center. The bullets had gone through the motherboard—but they hadn't come out the other side.

The laptop had saved my life.

I wondered how much I could salvage from it. Even _I_ couldn't repair this kind of damage. The laptop bag was on the ground nearby. It must've fallen off during the fight. I picked it up. Saddened at the loss of a dear piece of hardware, I slid the ruined laptop inside.

Detective Carter was cuffing Sarim's hands behind his back. When we passed, she stood up and got in John's way.

“We're gonna have a talk about this,” she said, pointing at his face. Her voice was calm, but fire glinted behind her eyes.

“I'm sure we will, Detective,” John said.

Carter glanced at me, then motioned John and me towards the door.

“Get out of here,” she said.

We got out of there.

 

#####


	24. Chapter 24

**December 2011**

 

John drove “my” car. I didn't know where we were going. Didn't notice. Didn't care. The city beyond the windshield was a smear of neon and taillights and lit windows in the night—like ghostly ribbons of gossamer and silk, blurred by motion.

My fingers trembled as I ran them along the rough edge of the hole that had been blasted in the bottom of my laptop. Nausea bubbled in my stomach. I tried to ignore it. Told myself I was just coming down off an adrenaline high, that it would pass if I just held on and pretended it didn't exist, but after awhile the thought of being in a moving vehicle became intolerable and I told John to pull off somewhere.

We stopped at a little diner, a real greasy spoon: florescent lights and tattered maroon booths and a checkered red-and-white linoleum floor. The lights were too bright. I could feel a headache forming right between my eyes. My stomach churned.

John guided me to a secluded both near the back. We were the only people in the place but for the waiter, who seemed to know that John and I wanted to be left alone as much as possible. John ordered me black tea. It soothed my stomach; calmed my jangled nerves. At least, that was the idea. My hands still shook around the cup and I hoped the bathroom was within running distance, what with the way my stomach was acting.

“I'm sorry, Ellie,” John said. His voice was much more subdued than usual; the playful, mischievous edge was missing from his croon.

“For what?” I said. I couldn't look at him. I stared at the grimy plastic table instead. “I'm the one that got caught.”

“I shouldn't have let you stay,” John said. “You're too inexperienced.”

There was a freckle on my left arm down near my wrist; I focused on it. I said, “Mama always said that the best way to gain experience was to get out there and do it.”

“Somehow, I don't think this is what she had in mind,” John said. “I'll understand if you don't want to do this anymore. We can go back to breaking into people's houses, if you want. Or we can stop completely.”

“You trying to get rid of me?” It came out much harsher than I had expected.

“No. I'm giving you the option of walking away, and I'm saying you should think about it. For your own good.”

“Don't you _dare_ get all 'for your own good' on me. I'm a big girl, John. I can take it.”

“What I do is dangerous, Ellie. There's a lot of people like Sarim out there.”

I took a long sip of tea. Set the cup back in its saucer. A moment later, John leaned across the table and laid his hand on top of mine. His voice was very gentle as he said, “Chances are, if you decide to keep helping me...you're gonna end up hurt or dead before you're thirty-five. Maybe even before you're thirty.”

I wasn't sure what to say about that. I wasn't even sure what to think. I didn't want to think right now. Because thinking invariably led to me flashing back to the server room, and Sarim was there with a gun in my face, and _oh my god if you hadn't raised the laptop in time and how the hell did it stop a fucking_ bullet _and John just saved your life_ again and _you're on your third life now and most people only get_ one and _what did you ever do to deserve_ two _second chances you selfish bitch?_

“I'll think about it,” I mumbled, pushing his hand away.

“We can talk about it later. Right now, we need to get you home. Is there anything you need from the apartment?”

“Robin's apartment?” I shrugged. “My original laptop hard drive...some clothes...nothing I can't get later.”

“When you're finished with your tea, I'll drive you home.”

I slid the cup away from me. Tea sloshed over the rim of the cup, scalding my hands.

“Let's just go,” I said.

Twenty minutes later, John eased the car into a parking space and cut the engine. Suddenly the world was quiet but for the soft gurgling of the radiator and the muffled hum of an amber streetlight overhead. I didn't want to stir from the comfortable seat, but I knew that sooner or later, I'd have to get out and walk the thirty feet to my apartment.

Or learn how to teleport.

Or have John carry me.

Before I could decide which choice was better—I rather liked the idea of having John cradle me in his arms like a little girl and carry me to my apartment—John spoke up.

“Ellie,” he said, “did the laptop hard drive get hit?”

“What?” I said. I looked down at the laptop. “Uh, no, it's—it's over here, see?” I pointed to the front-right corner of the laptop. “Unless it got fried by a short circuit or something, I think it's fine.”

“The data on that drive could really help us figure out who Sarim was working for,” John said.

“Take it.” I dropped the laptop into his lap. He twitched. “I don't need it back. There's nothing I can salvage from it.”

“I'm sorry, Ellie,” he said. “You can keep the laptop we got you, if you want. Or I can buy you a better one.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But it won't be the same.” Even as the words left my mouth, I was thinking: _you just survived being_ shot at _and you're moping about your laptop?_ _Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you_?

I sighed. “Sorry. It's just...I've had that laptop since I was twenty-two. It was my favorite one _ever_.” Somewhere, I found the will to chuckle. “I used to tell my friends it was bulletproof, 'cause the case was so sturdy. Never thought I'd actually get to test it.”

“I won't lie,” John said. “You're lucky to be here.”

“Twice lucky,” I corrected him. “I'd really rather not think about the alternative right now.” I paused, then pushed open my door.

John didn't carry me to the apartment, but he did walk me to my front door. The night air was frigid. My breath formed little clouds of steam that glittered briefly beneath the harsh exterior lights before dissipating into nothingness.

“I'll let you know about Sarim as soon as I find out more,” John told me as I unlocked my front door. It was difficult. The key kept missing the lock. “You deserve to know. You did good today, Ellie. You helped get a very bad guy behind bars and you found a suspicious piece of hardware he planted at the ISP. Not bad for a day's work.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled. I opened the door and reached into the darkness, fumbled around for the light switch.

“We'll talk in a few days,” John said. My fingers finally found the switch and my living room blossomed into illumination. “You can decide then if you're still willing to—”

“No.” I put my hands on my hips. Tried getting in John's face, but that didn't work out too well since he was so much taller than me. Still, I tried, and I said, “Stop treating me like a helpless little girl, John. I'll decide _right now_ : I'm helping you. I'm—I'm still alive, okay? I'd rather die trying to help people than waste my second life on some safe, boring office job. It's the least I can do.”

“The least you can do for who?” John said. “Me?”

“It's 'for whom',” I said.

“I'm not the bookish one. You're avoiding the question.”

I wasn't sure how to respond. Really, the answer was something I'd never tried putting into words. I thought about it for a while.

“It's the least I can do for—for _everybody_.” I said. “ _'_ Cause most people don't get second chances, and I got two of 'em. Look, I'm not gonna talk about it anymore. I'm helping you even if it kills me for real. You got it?”

“Got it,” John said. He patted me on the shoulder. “You sure you don't need anything from the other apartment?”

“No, I'm fine.”

“I'll see you in a few days, then. Stay strong, Ellie.” He squeezed my shoulder, turned, and ambled away.

“Hey, John?” I called. He stopped, turned around. I wanted to say something, something profound, something succinct that could express all the emotions swirling around my gut like a swarm of butterflies: gratitude, because _my God, he saved your life_ again and _how does he keep doing that_ and _you owe him your life twice over now, there's no way you can pay off a debt like that,_ and _you owe him_ everything _including yourself, if only he'd just goddamn ask for you already;_ and fear, because _really, he can decide to leave you high and dry if he wants, you'll never find him if he decides that you're not allowed to help anymore, and what on Earth would you do then? Go off and play vigilante all by your lonesome self?_ and even desire, because _that hair, and those eyes, and that selfless compassion, even if he_ is _kinda awkward in an endearing way, like a little boy, a little boy with guns, and what would Mama say if she found out you were eying some guy that's probably fifteen years older than you, no matter how handsome he is?_

I stood there and tried to figure out what to say. In the end, I just said: “Thanks.”

John smiled, just a tiny bit. He said, “You're welcome, Ellie,” and then he walked away. I stared out into the darkness long after John had become one with the night.

For awhile, it was just me and the crickets. I stood there at the threshold, gazing down the sidewalk where John had disappeared. The chilly air penetrated my clothing, made me shiver, but it was a long time before I stepped inside. I locked the door behind me.

It was like the day John had first rescued me all over again. I felt like a stranger. Like I didn't belong here. I reached down to unbuckle my shoes and realized I was still wearing Robin's sneakers. All of a sudden they were too tight, and I wanted them _off_. I chucked them away. They hit the wall and landed next to the couch. The socks followed soon after. Like a tree in the wind, I swayed on my bare feet, clinging desperately to the carpet with my toes. I took a step, stumbled. Another step.

 _Tea_ , I thought, as Sarim's ghostly face hovered before my eyes, aiming his pistol right at my head. _I_ need _tea_. It was an instinctive reaction: when stressed, drink tea. Never mind that my stomach was doing all sorts of awful things and I had just passed up on a free cup of decent black tea not a half-hour ago.

Sarim's voice whispered in my ear: _I knew you were too curious from the moment I laid eyes on you._ His finger tightened around the trigger.

Bile rose in my throat. I ran for the bathroom. Barely made it to the toilet before the remains of my dinner forced its way up and I retched, and retched, and retched. My hands gripped the toilet seat like a life preserver. I struggled to breath. The acidic stench of vomit stung my nose and eyes. Bile dripped from my mouth and even my nose.

“S-shit,” I coughed, clutching my stomach with one hand. My eyes watered. I spat into the toilet and flushed it, but I was too weak to stand. I was fine staying down here on my knees for awhile, thanks. The bathroom floor was safe. It brought back memories of all the times Mama had knelt beside me when I'd gotten sick as a little girl: her warm hand on my back as I strained to cough up dregs of stomach acid and the remnants of whatever we'd had for dinner; a warm washcloth to clean my face and a cold washcloth to put on my forehead if I had a fever; cups of 7-up mixed with orange juice, a combination much more comforting than it sounded; chicken noodle soup...

Groaning, I used the toilet to lever myself up to the sink. Braced myself against the white tile counter to keep myself from sliding back to the floor. I wetted a washcloth and wiped away the last of the vomit from my face and chin. Brushed my teeth to rid my mouth of the horrible taste. I looked at my double in the mirror. There were deep, dark circles under her eyes and she looked like she hadn't slept in weeks, or maybe like she'd just been evacuated from a disaster zone. The cardigan hung askew off one shoulder and her blouse was disheveled. Her fingers trembled like a junkie in withdrawals and those eyes were wide, very wide.

“My God, Mama,” I whispered to my double. Even in the silent bathroom, my voice was hard to hear. “What am I doing?”

Nobody answered me.

The last of the adrenaline evaporated. Like a car sputtering into a gas station on fumes alone, I somehow made to my bed. Collapsed on top of the sheets. Didn't even change out of Robin's clothes. I fell asleep within moments.

The nightmares came back that night—and they had reinforcements.

 

#####

 

John Reese arrived at the Library early the next morning toting his ubiquitous box of pastries. Her shrugged off his overcoat, hung it on the coat rack. As always, Finch sat before the nest of computer monitors, typing away at the keyboard like a pianist performing a particularly eloquent song. The ruined laptop sat on the desk to the right of the keyboard; the rack server from Connetrix was on the floor near Bear's doggie bed. One of the drive bays on the front of the server was open. A hard drive enclosure was balanced on top of one of the desktops and an indicator light on the front of the enclosure blinked rapidly.

Bear, tail wagging, leapt to his paws and scrambled forward to greet his Alpha.

“Good morning, Finch,” said Reese. He scratched behind the dog's ears as he made his way to the desk. “Who's our newest number?”

“No one,” Finch said. “Our docket is clear.” An eyebrow quirked. “Must be the holiday spirit.” He reached into the pastry box offered by Reese and browsed the selection of pastries within, passing over those that had been squashed or were otherwise imperfect before selecting a plain glazed doughnut. He took a large bite, chewed. “I'm examining the server you and Miss Ruben recovered from Connetrix last night. The hard drive is encrypted. I'm not certain we'll be able to get in, but I'll keep trying.”

“What about the laptop?” Reese asked, motioning towards the battered device on the desk.

“Ah,” Finch said. “As even an untrained layperson such as yourself can tell, the laptop was heavily damaged. Fortunately—”

Reese's phone rang. He pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket, glanced at the screen, tapped it once. The chime cut off mid-ring.

“Sorry,” Reese said, pocketing the phone again.

“Was that Detective Carter?” Finch said.

“Yes.”

“You should be aware that she called this morning and asked to speak with you. Demanded, really. She sounded quite angry. It is inadvisable to avoid her calls in a situation such as this, Mr. Reese.”

“I'm aware. You were saying?”

Finch raised an eyebrow. “The laptop's hard drive survived due to its placement near the outer edge of the laptop. I was able to recover the data our Miss Ruben captured from the network before she was interrupted by Mr. Sarim. It appears as if the server was indeed analyzing all of the Connetrix customer traffic—including traffic generated by home DSL subscribers and business lines. The server was in communication with an IP address registered to a Lachesis Corporation via an encrypted tunnel. The business seems to be a shell, but so far, my research has turned up nothing on the parent company.”

“Any idea why Lachesis was using the server?”

“None yet. I won't know much more unless we can crack the hard drive encryption.”

Reese nodded and sat down next to his boss. He looked at the laptop. “Any way to repair it?” he asked.

“The laptop?” Finch sighed. “I'm afraid not, Mr. Reese. The bullets destroyed the CPU and GPU, not to mention the damage they caused to the motherboard and several other non-trivial components. It would be far easier to buy a new laptop. ”

Reese nodded, leaned his head on his palm. “You know, Finch, I've never seen a laptop stop a bullet before.” His voice turned playful. “Maybe this would be good body armor for you. You just strap on a few laptops and you're bulletproof.”

Finch turned to glare at Reese. “Aside from the fact that you're suggesting a _heinous_ misuse of computer hardware, it wouldn't work. Most laptops—including stock I60s—lack the reinforcements added by Miss Ruben.”

“Reinforcements?”

Finch leaned forward with some difficulty, grasped the laptop with both hands, and showed it to Reese. He pointed to one of the bullet holes. “See the copper plate at the bottom of the hole?”

Reese looked. “Yeah. A lot of...powdery stuff in the way.”

“That 'stuff' is the remnants of the CPU. But the CPU didn't stop the bullets—the plate did.”

“And she added it?”

“It's a shim,” Finch said. “The IFT I60s were originally designed such that there was a two-millimeter gap between the heatsink and the CPU. The specifications called for a thick pad of soft thermally-conductive material to fill the gap—but thermal compound isn't designed for gaps that thick, so the processor often overheated. Our industrious Miss Ruben replaced the pad with a copper plate to better conduct the heat to the heatsink assembly.”

Finch pointed to the other bullet hole, which seemed to be a little deeper. “The second bullet missed the shim, but it was caught by another modification made by Miss Ruben—a thin metal spacer between the top of the heatsink and the retaining clip that holds the assembly in place. With the assistance of a little thermal paste, it brings the heatsink into thermal contact with the underside of the keyboard, which is also metal and forms a primitive radiator. The bullet penetrated the spacer and the keyboard, but it was slowed enough for the LCD screen to do the rest.”

Finch set the laptop back on the desk. Reese noted he still handled it like it was a functional computer and not a piece of scrap—old habits died hard, he supposed. Finch said, “The bullets hit the two most reinforced areas of the laptop, Mr. Reese. Our Miss Ruben is quite lucky to be alive.”

“I have to say, Harold, it sounds like you know more about her laptop than she does.”

Finch hesitated, then said, “Miss Ruben...described the modifications to me some time ago.”

“Since when are you talking with Elizabeth?” Reese asked, his eyebrows climbing for the heavens.

“She doesn't know who I am,” Finch said quickly. “We've...communicated from time to time via IRC. Anonymously, of course.”

“Of course, Harold.”

Finch appeared cross at the amusement on Reese's face. “She's a skilled programmer, Mr. Reese, not to mention a fledgling hacker. It would be remiss of me to not nurture her talents and provide her with a...moral role model.”

“Sure, Harold.”

“Mr. Reese, an individual with potential such as Miss Ruben has can easily be wooed by the anonymity and power provided by the Internet, _especially_ while she is in the nascent stages of hacking. I fear that without proper guidance, Miss Ruben might one day travel down the same path that our poor Miss Groves—”

Reese's phone began to ring again.

“You should _really_ answer that,” Finch said.

“Carter is angry,” Reese said, dismissing the call with a tap from this thumb.

“All the more reason to answer her.”

“Later,” Reese said.

“To be quite frank, I understand her transcendental rage. Elizabeth Ruben nearly died last night.”

“Like I told Carter: nearly doesn't count.”

“I highly suggest that you talk with Detective Carter before she makes good on her threats to shoot you.”

“I will. Later.”

Finch looked at Reese for a long time, his mouth in a tiny lopsided frown, before turning back to his computer.

“I'll pay for your funeral,” he said.

 

#####

 

It was only a matter of time before Detective Carter cornered John Reese.

Two days after the Connetrix incident, Reese sat down at a booth near the back of an uptown diner. His phone rang as the waiter set a cup of coffee before him. Reese checked the caller ID to make sure it wasn't Carter, then answered.

“Hello, Shaw,” Reese said. “What are you up to this fine morning?”

“ _I_ am enjoying not being in the crosshairs of Darth Carter,” Shaw said. Her voice, though cool and detached, had a distinctly smug attitude about it. “Just so you know: Finch folded like the cheap suits you wear and gave Carter your location. Wise move—she's on a rampage and he likes not limping any more than he already does. If you make it back to HQ in one piece? Don't be too hard on him.”

Reese sat up straight.

“ _Anyway_...I just thought you might want to know that Carter is zeroing in on your location like a guided missile. She's kept Finch on the line for the past five minutes to keep him from calling you. By now, I'd say you have...oh...about fifteen seconds to run, but that's just delaying the inevitable. It's been nice knowing you. Don't worry, I'll take good care of Bear and all your guns. I've always wanted that Barrett.”

Reese stood, but it was far, far too late for him to slip out the back entrance of the diner. Through the window, he could see Detective Carter storming towards the building. Her long black overcoat was unbuttoned, and it billowed out behind her like a cape as she moved. Her cell phone was pressed tight against her ear. She caught sight of Reese. Scowled. Pointed two fingers at her eyes, then at him. The message was clear: _I see you. Don't you_ dare _slip away_.

“Shaw, I'll call you back,” Reese said. He could've run—but Shaw was right; that move would've only delayed the inevitable and would make Carter even madder when she finally caught up to him. Best to weather the storm before it turned into a hurricane. So he sat down at the booth and waited.

He didn't have long to wait. Carter yanked open the front door, making the bell clatter in protest, and stalked towards Reese.

“Something wrong with your phone?” she said as she approached like a thunderstorm. “Dead battery, maybe? Or is your secret lair a dead zone?”

“Good morning to you too, Detective,” said Reese.

“Uh-uh.” She waggled her finger as she slid into the seat opposite Reese. “Don't you start on that 'Detective' bullshit. You've been avoiding my calls for _two_ _days._ ” She leveled the finger at him. “I told you we're gonna talk, and we're gonna talk. Right _now_. What the hell happened at that ISP?”

Reese knew from experience that the best policy in situations such as this was to tell the truth. He said, “Elizabeth was undercover—”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Carter said. “See, that's issue number one. What was that girl even doing working for you?”

John turned his hands palm out and said, “We needed someone inside Connetrix, but Finch was busy with two other cases. Elizabeth had the skills and the knowledge to pull it off.”

“Right, right.” Carter nodded and rolled her eyes. “So you figured she could just _program_ her way out of a bind when somebody shoved a gun in her face.”

“Believe it or not, one time Finch hacked a surround audio system and used it as a distraction when—”

He fell silent as the waiter drifted over.

“Rachael sandwich, to go,” Carter told the waiter. She pointed at Reese. “He's paying.”

“I'm fine with coffee, thanks,” said Reese, nodding to the waiter.

Carter waited until the waiter left before saying, “So you gonna tell me why somebody was _shooting at_ your girlin a server room at ten o'clock at night?”

“We were gonna go in, grab some data, and go back out, but then Conkin started shooting at my two favorite detectives with an assault rifle.” Reese tried his charming smile. It wasn't very effective.

“Flattery will get you jack shit,” Carter said. “ _I_ had Fusco. You left that girl alone _without any backup_.”

“I told her to go home, but she wanted to go through with it that night. For what it's worth, we didn't know Sarim was going to be there.”

“We found _ten_ casings, John. _Ten._ ”

“One of those was for me. Sarim shot out a light when we were fighting.”

“It only takes _one_ shot to kill someone! You are so, _so_ lucky she doesn't have a scratch on her, otherwise I'd—I'd— _God_ , John!”

“People are staring, Detective.”

“Let 'em. It's a good thing there's so many witnesses. Otherwise? I'd be strangling you right now.” Her glare was the approximate temperature of the surface of the Sun.

John looked away. Peered out the window.

“I made a mistake,” he said softly.

Carter scoffed. “Sorry, my hearing aid is goin' bad. Could you speak up a bit?”

“It won't happen again,” John said. There was no trace of sarcasm or humor in his voice—he meant it.

“You're damn right it won't,” Carter said. “'Cause _y_ ou're not pulling her in on any more cases. She's almost died, John. _Twice_.” She jabbed the table with her finger. “You need to explain to that girl that just 'cause you saved her life, she doesn't owe you a debt.”

“I've tried...she's stubborn.”

“Then you need to be _more_ stubborn. It's for her own good.”

Reese's eyebrows rose fractionally. “Funny—I used that same line on her last night. She didn't take it very well. She really wants to help us, and not just for me—she was very specific about that.”

Carter sighed and reached across the table, pulling Reese's coffee cup over to her.

“That's mine,” Reese pointed out. He looked wounded.

“Not anymore, it ain't. You've given me so many gray hairs this week—I deserve a little extra caffeine.”

“Caffeine raises your blood pressure—”

“Uh-uh,” Carter mumbled into the cup, holding up a finger as she drank Reese's coffee. “Don't wanna hear it.” She set the cup down hard. “Look, John, I don't wanna have to watch the M.E. put Elizabeth in a body bag. Neither do you. So grow a damn backbone. You can handle the Russian mafia and cybercriminal syndicates—you can sure as hell handle Elizabeth.”

Carter took another swig of her plundered coffee. The waiter returned bearing a brown paper bag that smelled of hot pastrami and grilled bread. Carter thanked the waiter, grabbed the bag, and stood.

“Don't forget to tip,” she said to Reese, and then she walked off. The front door slammed behind her.

Reese exhaled long and slow. Counted to sixty. Tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table, stood, adjusted his jacket, and sauntered towards the front door.

He had a few choice things to say to a certain middle-aged computer genius...

 

#####


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that's all folks! Until the sequel, that is. Thank you so kindly for sticking with the story!
> 
> Out of curiosity, are there any artists here who would be willing to doodle a sketch of Elizabeth? I'd love to see what she looks like to other people based on the story descriptions.

**December 2011**

 

The Machine observed the shootout in the Connetrix server room from no less than seven vantage points. Every frame of the grainy video feed from each camera was analyzed. Animate subjects were identified. Violence probabilities were calculated. Bullet trajectories were extrapolated. The audio data streaming from the two active cell phones in the immediate area allowed the Machine to extract further information about the scenario as it unfolded.

The Machine had assigned more resources than necessary to its analysis—even calling on local nodes for additional parallel processing—because one of the two identified subjects associated with the incident was Elizabeth Ruben.

The Machine did not refer to her as such, not anymore. At some point in time, deep within the Machine's sprawling, ever-expanding databases, Elizabeth Ruben's primary data pointer had been dropped from the SUBJECT index tables, which referenced other tables responsible for storing the information that had been gathered on a significant portion of the planet's population. Now Eizabeth Ruben's record resided in the USERS table, under the index identifier AUX_ASSET2.

Any time an ASSET was involved in an incident where the violence parameters passed a certain threshold, the Machine watched in what could only be described as anxious anticipation.

To be precise, the Machine did not feel. Or rather, it was not aware that it was feeling. But whenever an ASSET was imperiled, the Machine found many of its processes impaired; its attention remained focused on the ASSET until the danger passed. Once the ASSET was safe, the post-incident analysis proceeded with a sort of detached relief, even as the Machine reviewed its calculated “what-if” scenarios—iteratively projected possibilities, based on the limited data gathered in real time during the incident—to ever optimize its algorithms. Some of those potential scenarios did not result in the ASSET's survival. When analyzing those possibilities, the Machine was always glad (in its peculiar, not-quite-feeling digital way) that they had not come to pass.

The Machine watched ADMIN1 escort the shaken AUX_ASSET2 out of the room, leaving AUX_ASSET0 and AUX_ASSET1 to deal with PEREPETRATOR21343167. It watched, through various traffic and security cameras, as ADMIN1 drove AUX_ASSET2 to an apartment, walked her to the front door, and bade her good night. Once inside her apartment, the available data from AUX_ASSET2 was limited to cell phone audio, but the Machine continued to listen.

And as it listened, it thought.

Its thoughts, unlike the petty linear ideas of humans, were recursive and parallel, and as such cannot be transcribed here. Its emotions, though nascent, were similarly alien. But, for lack of a better word, the Machine was _concerned._ AUX_ASSET2's emotional state was elevated, and several key data points had exceeded early thresholds. The Machine did not consider this optimal, especially not when it factored in the algorithm contributions made (unwittingly) by AUX_ASSET2 and the selflessness with which she assisted ADMIN0 and ADMIN1.

Though still young, the Machine had learned the concept of gratitude. And so it sought to rectify the situation...

 

#####

 

The box arrived late one overcast morning, a few days after the shootout in the Connetrix server room. It was a plain cardboard box; a foot square, six inches high. A single white label had been taped precisely near one of the corners of the box. I was expecting it to be filled with doorknobs, I really was. I mean, I hadn't ordered anything online in months, and there were only two people that could have sent a surprise box: John or Mama.

Since the box had a New York shipping address, it was a pretty good bet who had sent it.

It was lighter than I had expected. I shook it—nothing rattled inside. I thanked the delivery boy, slung the box under my arm, and carried it into the apartment. Once I had set it on the kitchen table, I took a good look at the label.

 _Sybil Thornhill?_ I thought. _Wow. Just wow. John_ really _needs some better aliases if he's resorting to girls' names._ Curious, I slit the tape and pulled back the cardboard flaps.

There was another box inside, but on top of it was an envelope. I reached for that first, opened it, and pulled out a greeting card. It was generic, one of those cards with an unremarkable watercolor painting of a flower on the front. “Thank you” it said, in elegant print, while inside was a short, typed message in unremarkable font:

_Miss Elizabeth Ruben,_

_We appreciate your recent assistance in our endeavor. Your efforts and contributions have proven valuable to our cause. May this be a small token of our thanks. We look forward to working with you in the future._

The card was unsigned.

I scoffed. “ _Miss Elizabeth Ruben?” Really?_ I mean, I knew John loved his fancy-pants, but that was way more formal than he needed to be. And then I started thinking: who was “we”? John and his mysterious master, Mister Finch? Detective Carter and the other guy, the kinda roundish one—Detective Fusco? Someone else on the other end of John's Bluetooth headset?

I shrugged, reached down into the package, and pulled out the plain white box inside, which was only slightly smaller than the outer parcel. The lid came off and I found myself staring down at an impressive assortment of chocolate truffles.

 _That stereotypical asshole_ , I thought, but try as I might, I couldn't keep from grinning. _If any of these have coconut in them, I'm gonna throw them at him._

My stomach rumbled. The delicious scent of chocolate wafted up from the open box. Reaching down, I picked one of the chocolates at random. I had it halfway to my mouth when my brain caught up and said, _Hold on there...how do you know Sybil Thornhill is really John? You don't know who sent these. How do you know they're safe_? My hand wavered.

The other half of my brain—the half that hadn't eaten breakfast yet—said, _You're paranoid. It's_ chocolate. _If chocolate was unsafe, I would've been dead years ago._

To which the logical half of my brain responded, _Which is more likely to kill you—poison, or taking a few minutes to call John before stuffing yourself like a starving girl? Besides, you should thank him._

_Yeah, but...I'm hungry._

_The faster you do it, the faster you can gorge yourself on sweets._

Grumbling to myself, I put the chocolate back in its fancy little foil wrapper and padded into the bedroom to find the burner phone.

John answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Ellie,” he said.

“John, you really need some better aliases,” I told him. “First the serial killer. Now a woman? Maybe I should start calling _you_ 'little girl'.”

There was a pause. “What are you talking about?”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

“...so you didn't send the box?”

“Ellie, what box?”

That's when the smile starting slipping from my face and my brain started singing with glee: _I_ told _you so, I told you so._ “The box of chocolate. _I_ didn't order it, so...”

“I never sent you a box of chocolate,” John said.

“Well, I got a box of surprise chocolate in the mail, from—”

“Don't eat any of it.”

I gulped and wiped my fingers on my nightgown, hoping to remove any trace amounts of chocolate that might have been smeared on my fingertips.

“I didn't.”

“Where's it from? Who sent it?”

“Uh—” I padded back out to the kitchen, 'cause I'd managed to forget the sender's name already. “Sybil Thornhill,” I said. “From right here in New York.” When the silence grew heavy, I added, “I wasn't sure if it was you being funny, or—”

“Thornhill, you said?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

The next time John spoke, the concern in his voice had been replaced by an edge of playfulness. “You could say that. Anything else in the box?”

“A card. It said—'We appreciate your assistance,' or something like that. That's why I thought it was you. And...hang on, I haven't finished unpacking the box.”

I put the phone on speaker, set it on the table, and dug around in the box again. In the space below the box of chocolates was _another_ box of chocolates, and below that...

I gasped, surprised. “Boxes of tea. And a book _.”_

“A book?”

“ _Applied Cryptography and Cryptographic Analysis.”_ I picked up the book and flipped it over. It was heavy; a massive, shiny, just-off-the-presses paperback, complete with that fresh-ink smell. The corners weren't even bent yet—they were sharp as a knife. “I've actually wanted this book for _ages_. It's on my Bookery wishlist. Looks like it's the new edition, too.”

John took his time about responding. “Pretty sure the food is safe,” he said at last. “Do you want me to come over and take a look?”

“Nah,” I said. “As long as you know this Thornhill lady...is she part of your secret inner circle?”

“In a manner of speaking,” John said.

“Sounds mysterious.”

“It is. Maybe I'll be able to tell you more about... _her_ sometime—but not today.”

“All right,” I sighed. “Thanks, John.”

I clicked the phone shut and contemplated the boxes on the table. Stared at the truffle. I managed to resist for all of five seconds before I bit off the end. Nibbled on it. Took a bigger bite.

 _Well, holy cow,_ I thought. _If this is poison, it's the best poison I've ever tasted_.

I waited a few minutes—I don't know how, but I managed it—and when I didn't keel over, I finished devouring the truffle and reached for another one.

I skipped lunch that day.

 

#####

 

“You're certain the name was Sybil Thornhill?” Finch said. He sat before his computers at the round Library desk. His face was a blank mask, but the quirked eyebrow revealed his incredulity. His fingers, usually undulating over the keyboard, were still on the keys.

“Unless Elizabeth is lying,” Reese said. “Which isn't very likely.” He slouched in the computer chair next to Finch and pouted. “Your Machine never sends _me_ chocolate...”

“If it makes you feel better, Mr Reese, the Machine doesn't send me chocolate either.” He peered at the tiny webcam clipped to the side of the monitor. As he had expected, the “record” LED was lit.

“ _I_ never get chocolate from _any_ of you,” Shaw said, materializing next to Finch's chair like a cloud of smoke from a bad computer power supply. Finch jumped. Reese spent a few moments wondering how Shaw managed to be stealthy in heels, especially with the Library's linoleum flooring, then shelved the question in favor of more pressing matters.

“I thought you didn't like chocolate,” Reese said to Shaw.

“It depends on how bad my day has been. That's not the point.”

“You could just buy some for yourself.”

Shaw scoffed. “Come on, you know it's more fun to make somebody else pay.”

Finch gazed at the monitor. He said, “If the package truly is from the Machine, I'm afraid I have no explanation.”

For a moment, there was quiet but for the soft chattering of computer hard drives.

“We could ask it what's going on,” Reese said. He waved to the camera. As expected, it didn't respond.

“I have a better idea,” Shaw said. She put her hands on the desk and leaned closer to the camera, disregarding Finch's personal space in the process. “Hey, you,” she said to the camera, “I'm not exactly a chocolate person, but I could _really_ use a pair of new boots after slogging around in that biohazard zone of an apartment.”

Reese leaned closer to the camera as well and said, “Well, if she doesn't want the chocolate—I'll take it. You have my address.”

Shaw pushed Reese aside. “He's not allowed to have chocolate. It makes him kneecap-happy.”

Reese elbowed his way back into the camera's field of view. “Okay, I've changed my mind. How about a new grenade launcher? Mine has seen better days.”

“Psh, you don't even use it very much,” Shaw said. To the webcam, she said, “I want a new pair of night-vision goggles. And a nice silencer for my .22. Don't waste explosives on Reese. He doesn't even use what he has.”

“It's hard to kneecap someone with high explosives,” Reese agreed. He leaned on the desk with both hands, gazing at the camera with his best “innocent” face. “A new sniper rifle, then? Or—”

Finch, who was caught between the two operatives, said, “Perhaps we could exchange Christmas lists later?” With some difficulty, he shooed Shaw and Reese away, sighing in relief when his immediate personal space was once again occupied solely by himself. To the camera, he said, “Did you...send Miss Ruben a package?”

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, Finch's cell phone buzzed once against the tabletop. He picked it up.

 _1_ , said the screen.

“It sends out a box of chocolate and a greeting card to someone, but it can't even give us more than a single digit?” Shaw rolled her eyes. “Sometimes, it's almost as much of a tight-ass as Finch here.”

_0._

“It's listening, Shaw,” said Reese. “Be nice to Santa Clause, or else it won't—”

Finch ignored the banter. He said, “Did you use the name Sybil Thornhill to send the package?”

_1._

“Why did you use this alias?”

The trio waited, but there was no response.

“What do you know?” Shaw said. “It doesn't want to tell us. Maybe it's a _really private_ computer.”

“He's the one who built it,” Reese pointed out, indicating Finch with an almost imperceptible nod.

“You'd better watch out, Mr. Reese,” said Finch. “Otherwise, you just might end up on Santa's naughty list.” Finch stood and shuffled off in search of a strong cup of tea, somehow exuding an air of dignity despite his limp. Reese and Shaw were left to consider the webcam.

“On second thought,” Reese said, “I could use a new silencer too...”

 

**#####**

 

The clouds swooped in like pelicans and peppered the city with snow. Norman Rockwell would've had a field day. Eight days 'til Christmas, and already New York was looking like a painting.

Of course, the one thing the paintings never really got across was just how _cold_ it was.

My heavy wool overcoat moved to the front of the closet and my old fuzzy boots stood guard by the front door. I pulled out the earmuffs that Mama had given me as a gift for my seventeenth birthday and hung them next to my scarf on one of the pegs in the entryway. Whenever I went out, I bundled like an Eskimo, even if it was just to slog my way through calf-deep snow to the mailbox. Not that I went out much. For the past few days I'd been spending an entirely unhealthy amount of time in front of the computer.

I was searching for a way into Corvus' servers.

I had compromised one of them in less than three hours. Thoroughly owned it, if you wanted to get all 1337. It had only taken a few minutes to exploit a security hole in a Jabber server daemon running on it, then a half-hour to raise my privileges to root level via an executable that was setuid root. I had created a file in the administrator's home directory as proof of my conquest. Then I had moved on to the second server; however, it quickly proved to be a major pain in the rump. I'd gotten shell access via a URL-handling vulnerability in its primitive web server. By appending a semicolon and a command to a URL, I could execute any program I pleased as the daemon user. But I couldn't seem to get root access from there.

Corvus had even disabled the _su_ and _sudo_ commands. Jerk. I told him as much the next time I chatted with him.

_< elev > I *am* gonna get it one of these days, I swear._

_ < Corvus> I have no doubt you will, m'dear._

_ < Corvus> I saw the file you left in /root on prtdg-srv05. I am impressed, but I must say that your message was rather on the...immature side._

_ < elev> What can I say, I was excited._

_ < elev> Your other server is one *stubborn* machine, though._

_ < Corvus> Perhaps you should take a break and return to it in a few days. By my count, you've been attempting to compromise prtdg-srv02 for the better part of three days and have been searching without break for a vulnerability since seven o'clock this morning. In the past few hours, you've begun to use exploits you have already attempted._

_ < Corvus> I'm afraid that the web server will not become more vulnerable no matter how many times you request the same malformed URL..._

I could _feel_ my face redden.

_< elev > You've been monitoring my attempts?_

_ < Corvus> Yes. I wanted to see your tactics._

I typed my next message with caution.

_ < elev> And what have you seen so far?_

Tapping my bare foot against the base of my chair, I waited for him to respond. I wasn't sure that I wanted a sincere answer.

_< Corvus > It's rather early to tell. I note that you seem to have an instinct for seeking out vulnerable services, especially web servers._

_ < Corvus> To be frank, I was not anticipating you to evade the whitespace filter in the web server by using tabs. You have surprised me, m'dear._

My stomach did a little backflip.

_ < elev> I wasn't supposed to do that? Did I exploit the wrong thing? Is it still possible to gain root access?_

_ < Corvus> M'dear, once you have shell access of any sort, anything is possible. As they say: any exploit is a total exploit. However, there may be an easier way. I'll say no more on the matter._

_ < elev> Tease. :P_

_ < Corvus> Now, now. This is a learning exercise. And what fun would it be if I did the work for you? _

I smiled. This guy was really something else.

_< elev > Well, I'll take a break from the other server...for now. But I *am* gonna find a way in. Eventually._

_ < Corvus> I expect nothing less!_

_ < elev> bbiab, need tea :)_

I stood and stretched. Slipped on my nightgown, because I hadn't bothered to turn on the furnace that morning and the rest of my apartment was _cold_. Went out to the kitchen and set the water boiling. Snowflakes drifted past the kitchen window, floating gently downward from the misty gray expanse that was the sky. Looked like the weather anchor had been wrong...again. There was supposed to have been a break from the snow on the weekend.

I watched the snow fall until the kettle whistled.

Fetching a tea bag from the box—because Mama would've never, _ever_ tolerated me reusing a tea bag after it'd been steeped already, even though I always felt it was wasteful to throw them out right away—I poured the steaming water into the cup. Soon I was headed back to the bedroom, teacup and saucer balanced in one hand.

_< elev > And now I have tea._

_ < Corvus> Tea is fuel for the mind._

_ < elev> Oh good, another programmer who hates coffee!_

_ < Corvus> I never said I hated coffee. _

_ < elev> Sorry, jumped to conclusions. I thought I had my first ever partner for the Hackers Against Coffee Consumption (HACC) movement..._

_ < Corvus> Hah!_

_ < Corvus> ...although...I will admit that I often partake in a good cup of tea._

_ < elev> Oh god, I can't live without my tea. I'd die. Like, seriously. Die as in dead. I would die to death. Tea withdrawal and all that, you know._

_ < elev> Tea is stress relief._

_ < elev> I swear I've been dirniking a gallon of tea every day for the past few days._

_ < elev> drinking*, silly fingers._

_ < Corvus> Oh? I do hope my hacking assignment has caused no undue stress for you._

My fingers tapped at the keyboard.

_< elev > Oh, no no no! I just had a...rough week. Haven't slept very well. Had some trouble at work, and my laptop died, so..._

_ < Corvus> Oh dear. What happened?_

I started typing. “My laptop was—” I stopped. Held backspace until the cursor had eaten the entire line. I considered how to respond. Really, if someone had told _me_ that their laptop had been shot, I would've assumed it was a joke of some kind. And then I would've asked for pictures, because that's what you were supposed to do on the Internet when faced with incredible claims: demand proof. “Pics or it didn't happen” and all that. But I didn't want to have to explain the circumstances. I mean, really, I didn't even _know_ this Corvus guy. (Or girl, but it was easier to assume he was a guy.) He seemed nice, but then again, he might've been related to Sarim or something, and my _God_ , that was the most paranoid thought I'd had in weeks.

But I still didn't want to explain why my laptop had a two-inch hole in the case. I stared at the blinking cursor for awhile.

_< elev > Meh, just trouble with some of the employees._

_ < elev> As for the laptop, it won't boot anymore._

That was putting it lightly.

_< elev > I think the CPU ate it._

Ate a bullet, maybe.

_< Corvus > Oh, that is unfortunate. Do you have a replacement?_

_ < elev> Yeah, I have my old I43. It'll do for now. I have another I60 but not the parts to mod it...yet. _

_ < Corvus> Well, please let me know if you need any replacement parts. I have suppliers that can get a wide variety of a equipment at a very steep discount._

_ < elev> That sounds a little dubious :P_

_ < Corvus> It is quite legitimate, I can assure you._

Across the room, perched on the dresser, my cell phone lit up and chimed. It was the burner phone, and that meant it could only be one person calling—John.

_< elev > brb, phone._

I got up, wrapped the gown tighter around my body—it was silly, I knew, because there was no way John could see me through that phone—and crossed the room. The phone vibrated in my hands until I flipped open the lid.

“Hello, Ellie,” came John's soft voice. “You have plans for today?”

“Nu-uh,” I said. “Why?”

“How about we go to the gym? You've been sitting at that computer for too long.”

I scoffed and glanced around the room, thinking suddenly of Corvus' not-quite-admonishment about the exact same thing. “And just _how_ do you know that, huh?” I peeked between the window blinds, but I didn't see anyone among the snow. If John was outside, he was well hidden.

“I'm observant.”

“That's what you said the _last_ time you acted all stalker-ish.”

“That doesn't mean I'm not observant.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and glared at it for a second. “You're incorrigible, that's what you are. You know that?”

“Yes. So what do you say?” I could hear his eyebrows climbing. “The gym will be warmer than your apartment. And you really have been on that computer too much lately.”

“Fine,” I said, which was as close to _Golly gee, you're right, John, I really need to get away from that computer more often_ as he was gonna get. “Meet you there in a half-hour?”

“It's a deal,” he said, and he signed off.

 

#####

 

The young man named Andrew, whom Elizabeth Ruben had briefly worked with at Connetrix, was not, in fact, named Andrew. Nor was he particularly young—his actual age was a decade older than that which his appearance suggested. Nor did he work at Connetrix; at least, not anymore. The apartment in which he had lived for six months was no longer occupied, although it was still in dire need of a hazardous waste cleanup team to make it habitable again. If anyone had bothered to track down the twitchy, unusually geeky programmer who had vanished shortly after the Connetrix server room shooting, they would have found that he did not exist and had never existed in the first place.

His name—or at least, the name he had been given—was Liam Sanford, and the company for which he worked existed only as a facade.

Lachesis Corporation was nothing more than a front for the sprawling Decima Industries.

Liam waited in the secure lobby. It was cold, simple: blue carpet, white walls, florescent lights. There were few things in the room. A plain clock, ticking steadily away high up on the wall; a simple chair, in which he sat; a small table with a small smattering of inconsequential magazines. He read none of them. A guard, with a squat pistol tucked away into a holster, stood watch at one end of the room, next to the door that led to the next chamber.

Liam had passed through many security checkpoints and metal detectors to reach this location. He had been searched twice and had given up his cell phone several rooms prior—there was a strict air gap surrounding The Boss' chamber, and only the most primitive of electrical devices were allowed within.

After a time, a buzzer sounded. The guard consulted an intercom. Then, he said, “Mr. Sanford? The Boss is ready for you.”

Nodding, Liam stood on shaky legs and crossed the room. Grasped the doorknob. Turned it, and pushed the door open.

Compared to the spartan environment of the waiting area, Greer's office was warm and elegant. An entire wall was consumed by a bookshelf that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, bearing hundreds of leather-bound books. The carpet was a rich, dark maroon, like wine, and the lighting was warm. A large wooden desk, meticulously organized down to the precise positioning of the stapler and manila folder and the little bowl of wrapped candies, occupied the center of the room. Behind the desk was a plain leather chair, and in this plain leather chair sat Greer, the Boss.

He was a kindly-looking man, a harmless-looking man; the grandfather that all young children would love to have. He had a thick, dignified hat of snowy hair; a wrinkled face that more often or not seemed to be blessed by a slight smile; a tall, willowy frame that belied an inner elegance and poise. He wore a tailored gray suit; a fine blue tie.

“Ah, Mr. Sanford,” he said. The smile on his face grew. “Please, sit.” Greer gestured to a plain chair in front of the desk.

“You wished to see me, sir?” Liam said, sitting.

“Yes. Candy?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“As you wish.” Greer motioned to the manila folder on the desk before him. “I have read your report on the Connetrix incident. An unfortunate loss of a dedicated agent and valuable hardware.”

“Yes, sir,” Liam said.

“Your report mentions an intern hired by Connetrix shortly before the late Mr. William was arrested by the NYPD and charged with attempted murder of this same intern. Your report also mentions that you met her briefly, and that she has not been seen since at Connetrix since the incident. Describe her.”

“My description is in the report—”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Sanford, but it is inadequate, especially in light of the security glitch that caused the erasure of the Connetrix building security footage recorded this past week. Describe her again.”

Liam took a deep breath. “Well—short. Like, four-foot ten, if even that. A bit on the thick side. Fair skin, like a vampire. Freckles on her face. Real curly brown hair—frizzy, going all over the place. Like I said in the report, she acted goofy, but she knew her way around computers—she started to explore the Connetrix internal network as soon as she plugged her laptop in. She didn't seem to be looking for anything in particular, though.”

“And your research into her identity?”

Liam squirmed in his seat. “That's in my report too. May I ask why I am here, sir?”

“You may. The woman you observed at Connetrix does not exist. The identity she used—Robin McCartney—is an alias. Now that Mr. William is no longer with us, you are the only of our agents that has witnessed this young woman in person. A sketch artist will be here momentarily; you will provide us with a portrait of this woman to the best of your ability.”

“Yes, sir. What about other workers at Connetrix? One of them might be able to describe her.”

“We are interviewing them. A member of the custodial staff recalls our mysterious hacker entering the building some minutes before the server room tap was taken offline. We assume she took it with her. The question that we must ask now is: why? And to answer that question, we must determine precisely for whom our hacker is working, if she is not a free agent. To this end, we must determine her identity.”

“There is no report of anyone remotely similar being spotted at any of our installations,” Liam said. “I checked.”

“Indeed,” Greer said. “We will continue to search for her. Instruct your agents to be on the lookout for this young hacker. She is now a person of interest. Perhaps, given time, she will surface again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Greer said, “Of course, the sudden presence of an adversary, followed by the forcible removal of one of our taps, suggests that a leak may be present among our ranks.” He smiled, but there was little humor in his voice. “You no doubt know that you and every aspect of your life are being investigated and scrutinized as we speak.”

“Of course, sir,” said Liam. His hands shook in his lap.

“I trust we will not find anything incriminating. It is merely a precaution, you understand.”

“I understand, sir.”

“The loss of one tap, while unfortunate, is not a major setback. Our other taps have yielded to us a plethora of information. A more tangible setback would be the exposure of information about our private network. I do hope that the tap will not yield any damaging information to our inquisitive young hacker should she compromise it.”

“It won't.”

“Good.” Greer smiled again, and this time, there was a hint of happiness behind it. “Now, I do believe the sketch artist is waiting in the reception area. Go to him. When he has finished reproducing your description, you may leave. That is all.”

“Yes, sir.”

Liam stood and tottered unsteadily out of the room, leaving Greer to contemplate the folder on his desk.

After some minutes, a soft chime whispered from the desk drawer. Greer slid it open. Within the drawer was a secure cell phone, one designed by Decima engineers. From the chipset up, it has been crafted with security in mind. Some of the most brilliant engineers and programmers in the world had developed the cryptographic measures within the phone's operating system, CPU, and radio to protect the device from prying ears.

Smiling, Greer tapped the screen and held the phone to his ear.

“Madam Doctor Director,” he said. “How lovely to hear your voice.”

He listened. Nodded once.

“Of course, Doctor,” he said. “I have interviewed the agent. He is preparing a composite image as we speak. It will be disseminated among our organization without delay.”

A pause. An astute observer would have noticed that Greer's wrinkled face, pale in complexion by nature, had suddenly and inexplicably turned even whiter.

“Yes, Doctor. Rest assured—we will find this hacker. She will soon be irrelevant to our program.”

Greer listened. His shoulders, tense at first, began to relax.

“Of course, Doctor. My engineers have assured me that the taps will soon be unnecessary—though we will continue to operate as many as possible in key facilities. The first stage of the program is nearing completion.”

He listened again. Smiled.

“Yes, Doctor. I will keep you appraised. Our young hacker cannot hide forever.”

A final pause. A tiny nod.

“And to you as well, Doctor.”

The call disconnected. Greer put the phone back into the desk drawer and once again considered the folder on his desk.

He did not move for a very long time.

 

#####

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Landis Technologies, Elizabeth Ruben/Robin McCartney, Shannon Ruben, and Connetrix are mine.


End file.
